Making Plans
by Schmuzz
Summary: Dean Winchester is presented with an ultimatum: Either pass all of his senior classes, or flunk out of high school. But once he finds out his student tutor is Castiel Novak, he's willing to give dropping out a second look. And it doesn't help that Castiel feels the same way.
1. More than Seven Things to Hate About You

Dean Winchester knew there was a saying somewhere, by someone, that heralded high school as the hallmark of everyone's existence.

Dean also knew that person was full of shit.

He slumped further into the driver's seat of his car. The first gen Dodge Challenger was an eighteenth birthday present from his parents. Or more precisely his Mom; for John it was more of a 'sorry for dragging you all over the country on contracting jobs and leaving you to fend for yourself for months at a time' pity present. Which was a pretty damn good apology, even if it wasn't his muscle car of choice. It also served as a haven while he avoided going to class.

Like right now.

Admittedly, he hadn't just skipped gym and headed out to the parking lot. He had been called to the counselor's office to work out some issues. At first he figured it was some transfer difficulties, since he and Dad had only moved into Carlisle, Pennsylvania in time for the second half of his junior year. But when he actually got into the office, the whole 'situation', as it was now deemed, turned out to be a lot, well, _worse_.

The first quarter of the school year had come to a close, and that meant that twenty percent of his grade was accounted for. And he was failing about half his classes. Dean was kind of used to the whole failing thing, and the problem didn't become obvious until his principal – also there to address the whole _situation_ – had helpfully said that for him to graduate from Carlisle High School that June, he would have to get passing marks in every subject he was taking.

And just like that, the whole teenage dream crumbled into a million little pieces.

The subjects in question were History, Senior English, and a Supplemental Writing course he was forced to take since he also hadn't exactly passed Junior English, either. And due to his less than stellar grades for that term, it was explained to him that he'd have to keep an eighty-or-above average for the rest of his year, including the mid-term and final exams.

So, he was screwed. To put it hilariously lightly. Unsurprisingly the meeting got worse from there. Before he could leave to miss the rest of gym and brood in his car, he had been coerced into signing up for the 'Students Teach Students' program that the high school ran. As far as Dean understood, it was how the school's AP level kids reached out a helping hand to the lower masses. They got more bragging rights and class credit or whatever it was that AP kids wanted, and their fellow students, say, learned how to breathe through their nose. Something like that.

The last thing the counselor told him before he went to the safety of his car was apparently meant to be taken as good news. All three of his classes could be handled by just one student, one of their _best_ students, who was in the top eight percent of their graduating class.

His name was Castiel Novak, and the moment Dean's counselor said that Dean was about ready to drop his backpack and declare himself a drop-out.

Okay, it wasn't like he had some weird, personal vendetta against Castiel specifically. He just knew who he was because some of his friends described him as _that_ kid, the one who just _stared_ way too long at things. Or people. Or him. Dean tended to remember him because, well, who named a kid Castiel? He had heard weird names before, like Crystal or Kale or Apple, but Castiel was definitely a new one. And more importantly, he had noticed that the guy drove a 1967 Chevrolet _Impala_ to school, typically coated in a fine layer of dirt to insinuate that he treated the car like a burden instead of the obvious gift from high heaven that it was.

Really, he could have been set up with any AP student and he wouldn't have been more or less thrilled. He had gone through three different schools from ninth grade till now. And from South Dakota to Texas to where he was currently, he found out that it didn't really matter where he went, since every high school was essentially the same. New people filled old rolls, and every kid enrolled in more than one Advanced Placement class was guaranteed to loathe him, and he was geared to hate them right back. Dean had long ago accepted that he wasn't the smart son of the Winchester family, and he was fine with that. In fact, he might have even been okay with dropping out, if he didn't have to look Sam in the face afterwards. But as it stood, he was going to have to suck it up, stick it out, and pray to whatever deity he could that maybe, somehow, he'd be able to actually graduate along with everybody else.

Across the parking lot, there was a faint ring of the bell that signaled a transition to last period. Groups of kids slowly trickled outside, heading to their jobs or basking in their early dismissal privileges. Dean had work – a car garage off of Main Street that got thirty hours a week from him. It was no Singer's Salvage Yard, which had been left in the dust four years ago, along with his Mom and his brother, but it was good enough, and the pay was a few dollars better, anyway.

A moment later and he was gone, Zeppelin's _Friends_ playing and Carlisle School just a distant blip in his review mirror.

**xxxx**

Castiel Novak got his new Students Teach Students, um, _student_, as it were, the next morning, and immediately everyone had something to say about it.

"Do you think you get extra credit if the kid you tutor doesn't repeat the twelfth grade?" Kevin Tran asked, glancing down at the notice sheet Castiel was skimming.

He glanced up. "Is he that bad?"

"Well he kind of has to be, if he needs help in three courses."

"Plus he's taking that supplemental class," Castiel heard Inias move up in his seat to look over Castiel's shoulder. "Only the people who couldn't pass an English course take supplemental writing."

"_I_ took supplemental writing," Castiel grumbled.

"Yeah, freshman year." Castiel worried his lip a moment. He had probably seen Dean around and just couldn't put a face to the name, but either way, he wasn't exactly looking forward to his new assignment. Most of the time kids would sign on to the program for review work, or before mid-terms, or for SATs. But they never actually needed months of tutelage. And never in more than one class. He was obviously picked because he was the most capable person for the job, but if Dean was one of those kids who might actually be failing his senior year, Castiel honestly didn't know if he could help him.

And worst of all, if he couldn't, he would have wasted all his extra credit opportunities on a lost cause; no college, especially a reach school like Amherst, was going to take him if the student he was helping didn't actually get help.

It was all or nothing, and Castiel was anything but ecstatic. Kevin looked like he was going to say something encouraging, until their Psychology teacher stepped to the front of the classroom and started asking for the five-page paper on cognitive processes that was due that day, and he turned back around in his seat without a word.

**xxxx**

The first tutoring session between Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester occurred the next Tuesday, after school in the library. Dean was still bitter that he was forced to cut down his hours for ninety minutes every Tuesday and Thursday, forcing him to sit on his ass in his Dodge for the last period of school, idly working away at the only homework he actually understood; Algebra and Physics. He was passable at Math if he bothered to do the work, and mathy sciences were probably the one thing you could say he excelled in. Most of the stuff he read about in Physics could easily relate back to how to make an engine run, or how car parts functioned together, or how things crashed and burned. If everything else had real-world applications like that, maybe he wouldn't be where he was now, sitting at one of the rickety tables stuffed in a secluded corner of the room, waiting for Castiel to show up.

He checked his phone for the third time; when it flashed to 2:21, he heard a binder clap on the top of the table. He glanced up and saw a hand thrust under his nose. "You're Dean Winchester."

"Yeah," Dean said at length, grasping the hand before actually looking into Castiel's face. He looked as he did when Dean spotted him in the hallways: Big, blue, soul-staring eyes and black hair that was either not brushed or was made to look not-brushed, a popular look for most teenagers but admittedly one Castiel pulled off pretty well. He wore a button up shirt and dark jeans, which was about as casual as he got, as far as Dean had noticed.

While Dean had known who Castiel was and what he looked like, Castiel inspected the other boy closely, staring down at him while his fingertips tapped against the desk. He had expected the other student to look different, somehow. Perhaps bigger, or more obviously into sports, or grungy. Something to meet the usual fit and form of the types of people that came to him. Dean's sandy-colored hair was done better than his, his jeans were just this side of scuffed, and the black shirt he wore didn't reveal anything else; no obnoxious brand logo or thrash metal band. He was very much a blank slate, and as he stared down at him, trying to figure out why the other man was so pathetically bad in school, green eyes stared back, scrunched in a way that meant he had probably been looking too long.

Castiel slowly sank into the seat opposite Dean. "So," he said, opening the inconspicuous binder.

"So," Dean said back, immediately slouching in his chair. "Is that a lesson plan or something?" Castiel looked down at the papers in front of him, noticing that Dean didn't have so much as a pencil on him.

Castiel ignored the other's question. "You do realize you'll have to write at some point," he ventured.

"I thought we were going to play twenty questions," Dean said back. "You know, get to know one another a bit, since we'll probably be seeing each other for a while." Castiel had an inkling that Dean was being sarcastic, or more likely just rude.

"Not if I can help it," he replied, the implication of his words leaving the two locked in a tense silence as Castiel flipped through a few pages. Since Dean was a special case, the principal had given him a copy of his record, grades, a few remarks from the teachers, and past assignments that he had handed in. Technically there was some ethical dilemma about sharing confidential information between classmates, but if there was a person who would be arguing for Dean Winchester's student rights, they certainly weren't in the educational system. "Since your reports say that you struggle the most with essays, I thought we should start there."

"Awesome."

"Well, it's the only way to pass, so," Castiel quickly became disgruntled. He leant Dean paper and a pencil and got out a passage discussing some current environmentalist affairs that he had covered in class a few weeks ago. It was only a few paragraphs, and he decided to just have Dean answer some questions about the use of rhetoric and literary devices – of course that meant that he had to explain to Dean was rhetoric actually was, and their session was halfway over by the time Dean actually started to read.

Not long after silence descended over the table, Dean's phone went off. He quickly took it out of his pocket and checked his screen, chuckling a bit before he thumbed out a response.

"Dean," Castiel warned.

"Relax, it's just my brother," he said.

"You can see your brother any time," he watched Dean eventually put the phone down – not out of sight, merely a few inches away from his hand. His eyes roved over the screen for a while.

"He lives in Kansas," he argued. "So I really can't."

"Just do your work," Castiel huffed, running out of patience to form rational arguments with the other student. He waited until Dean very sluggishly went back to reading, occasionally jotting down a few sparse answers on the blank sheet of lined paper.

Time was at a crawl. Forty minutes left, then thirty-five; twenty, fifteen… It was harder to say who was more desperate to leave once four o' clock rolled around. "Same time Thursday!" Castiel shouted as Dean practically sprinted away, getting up mid-sentence to go. Castiel sighed, rubbed his face, and chanced a look at what Dean had been working on.

Taking in the messy penmanship, simple words and brief answers, Castiel held back a desperate groan; he really had his work cut out for him this time.

If he didn't get accepted to Amherst College, he was definitely blaming Dean Winchester.

**xxxx**

"And he scores hardly a three out of nine on the free response essays. Last week I had him read the inaugural address by John F. Kennedy and analyze the literary devices he used."

"Right." Rachel muttered, twisting in the combination for her locker.

"And he actually said 'J.F.K. is very smart because of his tone and diction.'" Rachel, oblivious to Castiel's meltdown, picked up her sketchbook and Calculus textbook, both a ridiculous thickness.

"Okay, so he's got the analytical prowess of a freshman. Sucks for you, I guess."

"It's worse than that, though – it's like he _trying_ to be an idiot."

"He could just be bad at English. Or maybe he's bored to death with whatever you're getting him to read."

"Kennedy isn't boring." Rachel just shrugged, slamming her locker shut.

"Who was this guy, again?"

"Dean Winchester." Castiel felt like banging his head against the lockers just by saying the other's name out loud. Rachel, who had been ambling down the halls next to Castiel, stopped in her tracks for a moment.

"…Did you say Dean _Win_chester?"

"Yes? Why?"

Rachel shook her head and quickly caught up with him. "Is there a way you can drop his ass? Because let me tell you something – that guy is _not_ trying to be an idiot." Castiel gave her a worried look, waiting for her to elaborate. "Remember junior year I was in Tech Ed?" Rachel's dexterity seemed to shift more towards architecture, and she split most of her time between art and math because of it. In fact, he and Rachel didn't even have any overlapping classes that year; they only talked because, well, they had known each other so long that it just seemed impolite _not_ to. "He was in my class when he came here last year."

"And?" Castiel nearly slammed into a gaggle of tenth graders as he pressed Rachel for more information.

"And he's got stuffing for brains. Seriously. He was good in that class, but all he knows and cares about is cars, girls, and mullet rock. He was the worst – didn't help that I was one of the only girls in that class. Oh, and his pickup lines were terrible." She shook her head of the memory. "Bottom line; do yourself and your résumé a favor and _don't_ help him anymore." A moment later she vanished into one of the science rooms with a vague 'see you' directed at Castiel. Looking around, he realized he was pretty much on the opposite side of where his next class was.

The bell rung, covering up his frustrated growl. Even when griping with his friend, Dean took up most of his attention.

**xxxx**

"…That, and he just keeps on _staring_ at me, it's creepy." Dean muttered, crossing his arms. Garth traveled next to him, the both of them finding one another in the hallways by coincidence. Garth tended to take long bathroom breaks when he got bored, and Dean tended to just not show up to class. Whatever worked. The bell had rung a moment ago and already the halls were deserted, most of the class doors shut to them as the teachers went on with their lectures.

"Maybe he likes you," Garth mused, fiddling with his hall pass. Dean made a disgusted face at the thought, more because it was hard to tell if Garth was kidding or not. "What class are you skipping, anyway?"

"History."

"Yeah. Don't show up to the class you're actively failing. Next valedictorian over here." Garth got a shove for that. "But seriously, has he helped at all?"

"No. He just… gives me these boring papers and has me write narrative crap on them. Explain how the metaphor illustrates the author's intention to… whatever. That kind of shit. And then he marks it all up and tells me I'm an idiot and to do better next time, and that's it."

"Do you ever look at the corrected papers he gives you?" Dean ran a hand along the lockers, feeling his fingers go numb after they clanged against the metal for a while.

"No." he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Why would I –"

He and Garth rounded the corner. Castiel was walking towards them, staring right through Dean. He didn't say anything, didn't even nod his head in acknowledgement, only looked at the other student as if he had heard every moment of his conversation with Garth, even though the two of them hadn't been that loud. It made Dean's skin itch, but he refused to even start up his pace again until he heard Castiel's shoes – dress shoes, _Jesus_ – clatter in the distance, and fade away.

Garth, beside him, let out a heaving breath. "That was uncomfortable."

"Yeah," Dean started walking again, his steps a bit more rushed than before. "I feel so sorry for you."

"No, seriously, you could cut the tension with a knife. Not even a knife. A toothpick. When do you meet with that guy, anyway?"

"Every Tuesday and Thursday."

"So tomorrow, then?"

"Congratulations, Garth, you know your days of the week." Dean absently rubbed a hand over his eyes. Wednesdays were usually bad, but knowing that he had to see that self-righteous look on Castiel's face the next day somehow made it ten times worse.

**xxxx**

Dean hated Castiel. He really did. And at this point, he thought he had collected a pretty long list of reasons. He hated how his head bowed when he was reading out of some massive, ten pound book while he gave Dean something to do. He always looked as if he was staring at a slide under a microscope or some entire brilliant world that no one had ever seen the likes of before, instead of some letter some guy sent to his Mother forty years ago. It was almost as bad as when Castiel decided to forgo that and look at _him_ instead – he had a hawk stare that could freeze blood and melt any and all self confidence. Dean detested how he was always digging for some significant meaning to everything. If he gave Dean a story about a baby being born, he'd ask him why he didn't connect the curtains to foreshadowing the tragic death of the family's grandmother. There was always something Dean was missing, and Castiel was ruthless about pointing it out.

The idea of going to the library after school had grown physically exhausting. It was making him sick. Every day he spent with his tutor was akin to being slammed for being a useless handicap to the world at large, and maybe he wasn't smart, but he knew he was capable of doing a few decent things in his life. At least teachers had stopped giving him shit for not caring; Castiel didn't give him that luxury, and he just couldn't _take_ _it_ anymore.

He eyed Castiel like the other was about to bite off his head on sight. They were in a far off corner like usual, as if Castiel was ashamed to be seen with him. The other student didn't spare a hello at this point, just a gruff, "We have a lot to cover today," and he quickly set Dean up with some archaic passage he couldn't even understand, much less analyze.

This time it was Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Dean had to work on not passing out as he dragged his brain through sentence after sentence of useless, flowery words. Wasn't brevity the soul of wit, or something? He mentally re-wrote a few paragraphs before realizing he had slim to no idea what was even being said.

"What _is_ this?" he posed the question angrily, but Castiel ignored him.

"Castiel," he said again, temper flaring. "Seriously, what is this shit?"

Castiel sniffed, leveled him that Look. The 'I'm better than you' glare; the 'I will be a successful millionaire one day and you will be working in food service for the rest of your life.' It was, quite simply, the private stating of the existing scale of humanity, and Castiel clearly thought Dean belonged on the lowest rung that existed. "It's a work by Emerson that I'm _trying_ to have you evaluate." He stated impatiently. He was always impatient.

"Yeah, kind of hard to do that if I can't even fucking _understand_ this guy. 'The useful acts are reproductions or new combinations by the wit of man, of the same natural benefactors. He no longer waits for favoring gales, but by means of steam, he realizes the fable of –' what the fuck does this even _mean_."

"It's not my fault you can't read what I give you."

Dean's hands clenched. "Fuck you," there was an uncovered vehemence there, as if he couldn't bother with the polite insults and just-this-side of allowed displays of distaste. The two of them couldn't fucking stand each other – there was no point in trying to make it subtle. Still, Castiel immediately drew himself up at the words.

"You should show me some respect," Castiel ground out, leaning forward, over the desk. "I'm only trying to help you."

Dean had already shoved his book back to Castiel and let his pen drop to the floor in a show of childishness. He was done, and far past caring what Castiel wanted him to do.

Instead, he laughed. It was a brief, cruel, one-note laugh that suddenly made Castiel feel very, very small in comparison, as if Dean had everything figured out.

"You're not trying to help me," he said, almost amused but mostly accusatory. "You're just trying to help yourself. You don't care whether I pass my classes – all that matters is what that says about _you_, and whether or not you'll get something for it." He glanced down to his hands briefly, as if wondering if he went too far with that statement – already Castiel couldn't help but grow pale in the face of the rather blunt truth. But then Dean took a breath and continued.

"This is the third high school I've been to – not for whatever insane shit people say, either;" he said, pointedly. "And it doesn't take long for people to realize that I'm not all that bright. And then they just stop trying with me. Teachers give up, the counselors give up – or they'll push it on students like you who are addicted to being so fucking impressive with whatever they do. And you think I'm bad?" He stood up, pulling the shoulder strap of his backpack towards him before leaning over the table, zeroing in on Castiel, so close he could see his glare being reflected in Castiel's irises. "At least I don't get my kicks by telling other kids they're shit, okay? That's how all of _you_ are – and I know that you all look down your noses at people like me." His eyes were dark, cutting deep, and Castiel couldn't look away, feeling frozen to the spot. "You think you're better than me because you had a college-reading level since fifth grade, and all of you are going to fucking MIT and becoming billionaires, aren't you? You don't have time to care about anything else." Castiel felt himself gape at the words, and Dean must have taken that as an attempt to interrupt, because he went right in for another verbal jab. "And don't for a second pretend that you care about me. Because you don't, and no one else does, either." He swung his backpack on his shoulders. "You just want to see what I can do for you. And maybe that's why I don't think I owe you anything – much less actual respect. Not when you look at me like I'm some sort of fucking disease." He straightened up and made a hasty retreat out of the library. Castiel watched his back, too shocked to notice the few people that were splitting glances between him and Dean.

He didn't blink until the other student was out of the library, only then did he sink in his chair with relief, trying to calm himself with deep breaths.

At first he had thought Dean was just going to punch him, and he had briefly thought that would be the worst thing to happen between them in the little secluded spot they had.

Now he knew that would have been the preferable choice. Because try as he might to ignore Dean's words, write them off as unimportant and over-dramatic, his heart wasn't slowing down, and his insides wouldn't stop churning.

Castiel knew that Dean was, in a frighteningly large way, completely right.

He _didn't_ care about Dean's grades – and he doubted that most of the student tutors did, either. They all signed up for Students Teach Students to get extra credit and volunteer hours and more things to add to their college resumes. Not to actually help people.

In his Advanced Placement and Honors classes, Castiel only saw intelligent teachers teaching equally smart students. And, to be honest, hardly a week went by where they didn't talk about the 'lower level' kids with an eye-roll and a bit of smugness about them, staff included. Even in a school of a thousand kids, there was an entire world that Castiel was in, and Dean definitely wasn't.

Sometimes, though, he got a glimpse. Some of the electives that only had one level, or those gym and health classes that clumped students by grade versus ability. There were always a handful of students that seemed completely hopeless. And those were the ones that most instructors ignored, or shoved into detention. Or swept under the rug in some other, insidious way. Schools shoved people like Dean from place to place: counselor meeting to tutoring session to detention, but it wasn't for the sake of compassion, and it wasn't because they were trying to help him.

So then Castiel was forced to ask himself: If he didn't care, and the teachers didn't care, and the administration and the whole damn educational system didn't fucking care about someone like Dean – _any_one like Dean…

Then who did? Why would Dean bother trying if no one else was willing to?

And for the first time since sixth grade, Castiel was beginning to feel something twist in his chest, his throat; sneak into his mind and ask questions he didn't want to find the answers to.

What he felt was, in a word, doubt. Because Dean had been right; he had known he was right, and suddenly all of Castiel's convictions seemed very, very flimsy. He suddenly questioned the blind faith he had placed in his education, and the way he had been conditioned to think that he was better than someone like Dean for the sole reason that he had harder classes. But mostly, he was beginning to doubt himself.

At first Dean seemed difficult because he was so ignorant. Now he seemed difficult because there was no other way to respond to the world he was in. He could become something, if he wanted to be. Anyone could, though Castiel wasn't sure if that conviction held any water, either.

If Dean was still beside him right then, Castiel would have apologized on behalf of everything, and asked for a fresh start. He had been so caught up in his own goals that it took a goddamn cuss-out from a classmate to realize he'd had his head stuck up his ass, for, what, six, seven years? Dean was still a person; and more than that, he was a person that needed help. He could graduate; he could do whatever he wanted to do, if he tried hard enough. If Castiel tried hard enough – if anybody bothered.

Castiel thought that maybe he'd be willing to try, to earn that respect and actually do something decent for once. He used to be such a nice kid, before success entered his mind.

So, he'd do it, sitting alone at a chipped, wooden table in the library, he decided that he would teach Dean Winchester and help and put some actual _effort_ in this time, not for the credit, not even to soothe the doubts that had been planted in his mind just then.

In a perfect world, everyone got a chance. And even if that wasn't possible, he still found himself thinking back on Dean's broken but truthful observations before he stormed out, deciding that maybe, out of everyone Castiel had known, Dean deserved that chance, too.

**xxxx**

**A/N: This was originally written for a now completed challenge, which is split into three chapters; for my prompt, I received the ever classic 'Castiel is a tutor and Dean needs to pass his classes and they hate each other.' To be honest I'm not a huge fan of the tutor subgenre of high school AUs, but I am in high school, so I rolled with it. As a senior taking some AP classes, I was able to sympathize with both of the characters. Mostly this was just my take on a high school setting - so, it's not that exciting, the problems are, well, mostly about existential teenagers, and AP kids being snobs. Because they kind of are. Uh, ignore the fact that I'm an AP kid.  
**


	2. Thank God for Vonnegot

Castiel was back in the library the next week. He knew that there was a good chance Dean wouldn't show up, at least not this time, but he also suspected that the counselor would force him to appear eventually, even if Dean's grades betrayed the whole pointlessness of the tutoring sessions. So many aspects of a school ran on the principles of things.

Despite that thought, it wasn't much later when he saw Dean's familiar face come into view, eyes slowly searching the library before falling on Castiel. He slinked over, but he didn't plop down in his seat like usual; instead he shifted on his feet and stared down at the other, presumably waiting for Castiel to say something unbecoming to him.

"Waiting for another student?" Dean finally supplied.

"No," Castiel said. "Just waiting for you." He got a peculiar look for that.

When Castiel didn't offer anything else, Dean muttered, "I uh, figured you weren't going to be here."

"To be fair, I was thinking the same thing about you."

Dean slowly sat down, opposite of Castiel like usual. "I didn't mean to sort of, chew you out last week. I mean, I shouldn't have made it personal, and I did."

"It's not my job to be offended by what you say," Castiel said, reveling in the wince he got in exchange. But then he reminded himself that Dean still had every right to be mad at people who were only pretending to care about his success, and he went, "And, I accept your apology – or at least, what sounded like an apology. What you said last week… it wasn't exactly wrong, I'll give you that." Dean stared dumbly at him, as if surprised by that reaction. "So," he said, "Did you need something?"

"What?"

"Well, there wouldn't be much point in coming back to read some stupid article on a subject you hated with someone that you also hated. So, I thought…"

"Actually," Dean opened his backpack and dug around in it. Castiel tried not to cringe at the entropic sight of Dean's book bag. He couldn't even see any folders, for God's sake. Eventually Dean pulled out a sheet of lined paper, crammed to the margins with his writing. It looked a bit more legible than all the other times Castiel had seen it. "It's an essay for my English class. We're reading…" he stopped for a second to dig out a small red book. "Science fiction. _Slaughter-house Five_. And we have to do the usual assignment work – define the author's tone and themes he uses and make connections, that sort of thing." Castiel was still looking at the book. He hadn't read Kurt Vonnegot – not in school, at least, but he had seen the school issued copies and Dean's looked a lot… _newer_, for lack of a better description.

"Is that your copy?" Castiel asked, pointing at the book. Dean looked to it, subconsciously touching it as he did so.

"I, uh, yeah. It is. I actually read him, a few years ago. My brother got it for me as a present, before I came here." He slowly handed it over to Castiel, who made a cursory flip through it. There were dozens of dog-eared pages, sometimes sentences or single words were underlined. Once or twice he saw notes in the margins of the book. It was the sign of an appreciated novel; probably one Dean had gone over a few times. He looked back over at Dean. "I actually like it," he mumbled defensively.

Castiel willed himself to smile and found that it wasn't that hard to do manage. "I can see that." He gave the book back. "Do you want me to look over the paper then?"

"…Yeah. That'd be great, actually." He silently watched Castiel take the note paper, picking up a pencil this time, instead of his usual swatch of correcting pens. "It's just," Castiel gazed up at him. "Well I actually like this book so I figured…"

"Right." Castiel said. "I get it." And the thing was, he did – of course he always put in as much effort as he could into every assignment, but if there was a project on a favorite topic of his, he imagined that failing it would be almost like failing himself, or a failing of his interests. He went back to the essay and after a few minutes Dean opened _Slaughter-House Five,_ flipping to the page he had last left off of, unfolding the top corner and continuing on.

If life were simpler, Dean's essay would have been a shining example of passion and untapped brilliance. Instead, Castiel still found himself making correcting notes, starring a few phrases and run-on sentences and writing 'omit this' and 'what does this mean' on more than one occasion. But despite that, and Dean's occasional nervous glances towards his tutor's handiwork, it actually wasn't a bad essay. Not just by Dean Winchester standards, either.

Unlike before, in the responses he had done with Castiel, there was more coherence, more understanding. For a paragraph Dean wrote that Vonnegot used sarcasm and black humor and certain measures of ridiculous scenarios – such as aliens and unwilling time travel, apparently – to help readers be more accepting of the rather negative views and memories of World War Two, during a time where most of the veterans and supporters were still very lucid, and wouldn't have appreciated an unveiled, harsher reality. And it made sense. And it was intelligent – and something that wasn't so important to a teacher but struck Castiel all the same, was that Dean treated the topics like they actually mattered. There was some form of concern in his writing, and more than once Castiel saw words that Dean had erased and replaced with better fitting counterparts. It was decent work – perhaps better than that, in fact.

When he put down his pencil fifteen minutes later, Dean closed the book and said, "Well?" as if he was walking on eggshells.

"Your prose needs some work." Castiel said, blatantly ignoring the way Dean looked crestfallen. "It shows coherence, but there are times where you talk in circles or lose focus on the question. You should also try breaking up some of the longer sentences, or becoming more familiar with semi-colons. Also, sometimes you start talking about a much larger scale than what the question is asking for, even if you want to talk about what this book says on American culture, all your teacher wants is what it says about the author." He slid the paper back to Dean. "But," he said pointedly, making sure Dean was looking at him. "It's actually quite good, not just compared to what you gave me before – compared with a lot of other seniors, it's just… good."

"I – really?" Dean went, squinting at him, unwilling to believe what Castiel said.

"Really. It's not perfect, and I made a few notes so you can re-write some passages, but if you handed that in right now, you'd probably get an eighty, maybe higher." He offered the projected grade, expecting Dean to nod at that and move on. Instead he just put his attention on the paper for a moment, reading a few of Castiel's notes.

"Could I get a hundred on this?"

"If you want to," Castiel said, trying to push down some sort of bright feeling. Dean could have taken the easier route, but instead, he wanted to do better.

"Awesome," Dean said, more to Castiel than the actual paper, and he got out a notebook and started writing again.

**xxxx**

Castiel looked over at Dean. "Ninety-five." He said. "At least." He handed Dean back the newly rewritten essay and watched Dean put it away,very carefully this time, though how he would find it in his mess of a backpack Castiel would never know. "So," Castiel said, about to tackle a question that had been ringing in the back of his head for a while now. "What made you want to actually do this assignment?"

Dean looked considering for a moment before just shrugging. "I told you, I just liked the book. It wasn't hard to talk about it."

"Fair enough. So, Vonnegot over Emerson. I'll remember for next time."

"Next time?"

"Well you still need a tutor, don't you?"

Dean licked his lips. "Yeah. I mean I _do_, but… I figured you weren't going to stick around."

Castiel took a moment to reply. "I thought about quitting." Dean gave him a curious look.

"Then why are you here?"

Castiel made a show of putting away his things, getting his car keys out. He decided that he ought to tell the truth. "Like I said," he explained, still looking at his bag instead of Dean, "What you said last week – you weren't wrong. And I don't know if I can help you graduate on time and pass your classes but…" he blinked, furrowing his eyebrows. "I decided that I want to. Not because it'll look good for _me_, but because it's just the right thing to do. You're not stupid, obviously you're not," he nodded his head to Dean's backpack where his essay was. "And I guess… I wanted to give you a chance."

Dean made a scoffing sound. "No one else will,"

"That's why I am." Castiel thought he might have shocked Dean by the intense look he suddenly gave him, because the other man seemed frozen, almost, after he spoke. Silence hung between them, even the other kids chatting to one another carried on in a far-off, muted way, and they all could have been staring at the two of them for all Dean or Castiel noticed.

They might have stayed that way for an embarrassingly long time, if Dean's phone hadn't started to buzz. He flinched, dragged it out of his pocket and checked the screen.

"Is someone calling?" Castiel asked.

"No. Shit, it's my alarm. I'm gonna be late. To work, I mean." He zipped up his bag. Castiel could have offered to go out with him, but felt almost stuck in his chair, watching Dean move around, put on his coat. He began to walk away, but stopped at the last moment, turning his head. "Uh, thanks, by the way. For giving me a chance and everything."

Castiel barely managed a nod. "Same time Thursday?"

Dean gave Castiel a smile that left an impression long after he had left the library and drove out of the parking lot.

**xxxx**

Two days later Castiel found himself dragging his feet. It wasn't that he didn't want to see Dean, per say, but it was like he was inadvertently stalling, walking Rachel to the school doors, talking to Kevin for a bit until his Mom came by to pick him up, that sort of thing. If he was waiting for something, he didn't know what.

He got into the library and saw Dean, slumped in a chair and tapping on the table with a pencil while he fiddled with his phone. Suddenly Castiel was hurrying; picking up his steps to veer from the zombie-walk freshman did to that over-worked Junior sprint he had once been pretty well versed at. He slid into a chair, opposite Dean, like normal.

"Hey," he said. Dean looked up, slipped his phone into his pocket, out of sight.

"Hey yourself. I was wondering if you decided to quit after all."

Castiel shook his head. "No. Just busy. Had to check out a few things."

"Chess club lose a member?"

"Do we have a chess club?" Dean opened his mouth, then shut it, as if deciding his comment wasn't worth it.

"So, I was thinking,"

Dean started tapping his pencil again. "Don't strain yourself."

"…That your tastes in reading material are pretty much the opposite of mine." Dean nodded. "And since you hate whatever I picked out, I'd try something... different." He dug out the tutoring binder he kept and got a small packet from one of the folders, sliding it over to Dean.

"'_Watching TV Makes You Smarter_.' Huh. Seems like my kind of thing."

"I thought pop culture might be better. Figuring that out only took a month of our time." Dean turned a shoulder again; obviously a sign that it was water under the bridge. He was more relaxed than Castiel had ever seen him, even in the times where Dean was purposefully trying to look lazy and ready to fall asleep. "So, the same thing we've been trying to do; analyze the text, and see what strategizes the author uses to make an argument."

"Okay." Dean said. As simple as that. He bowed his head, eyes scanning over the page. Castiel watched him for a few seconds before trying to focus his attention elsewhere. At some point he settled on reading on his phone for a bit, some editorial he was assigned to discuss for English the next day.

Dean's attention was a lot more tenacious than Castiel's for once. The article wasn't made up of purple prose and words he didn't know – or words that normal people didn't use. This was a lot better, as the author kept on praising new forms of television as insidiously more intricate and challenging. Someone defending TV usually got bonus points in Dean's book, but when the article started to mention the _Mary Tyler Moore Show_ and _Hill Street Blues_, he felt a smile creep up on his face, then a chuckle slipped out as nostalgia took over.

"What?" Castiel raised his head.

Dean looked across the table. "Oh, it's – it's nothing, just… the shows that he mentions, brings me back, you know?" He pointed at one of the paragraphs. Castiel squinted at it.

"I didn't know you watched sitcoms from over thirty years ago."

"What can I say? My childhood was full of shitty television." Castiel leaned back in his seat.

"Except for the _Twilight Zone_."

Dean hummed thoughtfully at that. "Good point. Quick, _Twilight Zone_ or _Outer Limits_?"

Castiel gave Dean a pointed look. "I think you're avoiding the assignment."

"And I think you're avoiding the question. Come on," he stretched an arm out on the table, "Indulge me."

Castiel made a show of rolling his eyes. "What, no _Night Gallery_?"

"Nope. Only one Rod Sterling host allowed."

"Alright." He glanced up, as if in thought. "_Twilight Zone_ probably wins. It was the original by a few years. And it was a bit more subtle, in a way. There was a lot of different social commentary in some of the episodes. I mean it's the show everyone remembers for a reason. It was just… good."

"Yeah, like this guy says, 'The relevant comparison is not between _Joe Millionaire_ and _MASH_; it's between _Joe_ _Millionaire_ and _The Newlywed Game_, or between _Survivor_ and _The Love Boat_.'" They both leaned in close to read the paragraph Dean pointed to.

"Maybe you could include that quote in your essay…" Castiel trailed off, hoping Dean would get the hint. They looked up at each other and saw how close they had gotten as they read together – Castiel could start counting Dean's freckles, if he wanted – even the dusting of deceptively light ones that couldn't be seen from farther away. Dean's lips were parted just slightly, as if about to say something.

He let out a sigh, after some time in suspension. "Yeah." He said. "Yeah, okay." He leaned back in his seat, pulling the paper closer to him.

"I promise you we can talk about _West Wing_ and all those other crappy shows after I make sure you get a seven out of nine on this." Dean's mouth quirked up, just a little, and Castiel counted that as a victory.

**xxxx**

Two weeks after Dean and Castiel actually began cooperating, Dean stopped him in the hall on his way to AP Language and Comp. Kevin was next to him, and almost went on walking when Dean cut through the stream of kids to tap Castiel on the shoulder.

"Hey," Castiel greeted cordially. "What's going on?"

"Progress report." The second term was a long way off, but reports had been sent out that morning. It was only Monday, though. Castiel was a bit surprised Dean had sought him out.

Dean handed him the transcript. There was Gym and Physics and Math, plus an advanced engineering class Dean had consistently reputable marks for. But when Castiel read over Dean's problem courses, he felt something in the back of his stomach surge a bit; pride, he reflected. Dean had gone from fifties and sixties to solid B minuses across the board. Even with the crappy start to the term, the grading curve he had more than made up for it. He handed the paper back to Dean. "That's great. Amazing."

"Awesome, right?" Dean said. "I even nerded out and did some extra credit."

"Without me telling you?"

"Impressive, I know." Castiel and Dean actually beamed at each other. They simultaneously realized that and worked for a moment to pack away the thousand watt smiles they were sporting. "At this rate I'm totally set for the year."

"As long as the mid-terms don't kill you," Kevin interjected. Castiel couldn't even remember Kevin was there.

Dean quickly went back to focusing on Castiel. "Nah, Cas here is one of the best and brightest. If someone has to get my sorry ass to the finish line, it'd be him." He clapped the other on the shoulder in a hard gesture that was probably yet another attempt to gain back precious solidarity and manliness. "See you later," he said, sauntering off down the hallway.

"Does he always call you that?"

"Call me what?" Castiel replied, still watching as Dean's form disappeared into a crowd of backpacks and students and opened locker doors.

"Cas. He called you Cas right then."

"Oh. Did he?" Castiel tardily realized that. "I guess it's a new thing."

"That's kind of rude of him, don't you think?" Kevin went into the classroom first, taking his seat in the middle row. Castiel sat behind him, as usual.

He shrugged his response, rearranging the books he had set down on his desk. "Not really. It's just a nickname, after all."

"So can _I_ call you Cas?" Kevin ventured. Castiel stuck his tongue between his teeth, searching for last night's homework. He was totally spending too much time with Dean – the unorganized bit was rubbing off on him.

"No," Castiel said without thinking about it – where was it, where was it... "That'd be… weird." He didn't elaborate – he didn't have a good reason, either. He hadn't been Cas to anyone, or at least not habitually. If someone dropped Cas once or twice he never took notice. His brother tended to call him that, not that he had really been around to call him anything for, well, a while. So hearing the shortened name was kind of refreshing, like rediscovering an old tradition and relishing in it. Having one of his consistent friends pick it up out of the blue wouldn't feel right, and that was the best Castiel could explain it, without explaining it at all. "Here it is," he mumbled, with some relief. The practice packet for the multiple choice section of their AP exams had somehow ended up in his Honors Calculus folder. Odd.

The fact that he and Dean were friends – timidly still, but it counted – didn't seem to register.

**xxxx**

The next day, Dean came up to Castiel in the library and said by way of greeting, "I just want you to know that I totally defended your ass earlier today."

Castiel blinked. "Um," he said. The intelligent comeback made Dean raise his eyebrow, slowly pulling out his chair. It dragged along the same vaguely gray and purple colored carpet that nearly every public building seemed to use as a wall-to-wall furnishing. He sat down. "Thanks? I guess?"

"Well I guess it doesn't actually matter," Dean supplied, after a moment, placing his backpack down on the ground next to him. "But this morning my friends asked me how my dick of a tutor was, and I said that you weren't that bad. Anymore, at least."

"Oh."

"It's a compliment."

"Not in the traditional sense, but yes," Castiel said, flicking through a few pages in his notes. "I suppose it is." Dean shrugged.

"I mean it though. Castiel Novak; totally Not a Dick." He bit on the end of his pen for a moment, Castiel watched, narrowing his gaze before Dean moved to write his name and date on a piece of paper in his notebook. "We should put that on a certificate for you. You can hang it up. It'd be like the one measure of achievement that most AP kids couldn't get."

"That's a bit –" he was going to say 'stereotypical', but just then Dean flicked his gaze up to Castiel, and he felt the words fall by the wayside. Suddenly he understood why people found his staring uncomfortable. "Anyway," he said, trying to organize his thoughts even as Dean continued to look on as if he was about to hear the most earth-shattering fact in the world. That kind of attention was… _new_, and Castiel wasn't sure whether or not to be happy with it. "You mentioned that you have a test coming up in History." Dean groaned at that, letting his head fall onto the table in a dramatic way to show how he felt on the subject. Castiel felt the side of his mouth reflexively twitch. "So I figured we could get started on that."

"I can fail one class, right?"

"You can't fail any classes, Dean. That's why you're here." Dean lifted his head up and reached his arms across the table, fingers just touching Castiel's binder.

"I can go to summer school," he begged.

"You can," Castiel said, shoving Dean's arms back to his side of the table. "But you won't. So you have to put up with me."

"Can we just see a movie instead? Like a historical movie?" Castiel managed a smile while inwardly he was reeling from Dean's apparent throw-away line. They were friends, he and Dean, sure, but Castiel was pretty certain that they were those sorts of friends that stayed securely inside the domain of school. You didn't see them on the weekends, you didn't try to have a get-together for fun, and if you saw them on the street you'd only muster up a small hello before getting to what you were doing because, well, seeing them anywhere else crushed something integral about the relationship. It was like being a four-year-old and watching a mall Santa pounding shots in a bar; way too surreal and somehow capable of ruining your admittedly fragile dreams. School was safe. Fooling around during the tutoring sessions was safe.

Then again, Dean was probably joking, but he forced himself to keep up the banter they had going; it was too much fun not to. "You can take me to the movies after you pass,"

"Can I hold you to that?" he sounded childishly hopeful.

"I promise, Dean." He slouched back in his seat. "Alright, so we were talking about…"

"The Cold War," he murmured into his arms. "The dumbest of all wars."

"I don't know about that," Castiel said as Dean straightened back up in his seat. "You're forgetting World War One. Over fourteen million people died because an archduke was assassinated."

"Well it wasn't _just_ because of some guy," Castiel blinked, mentally urging the other to go on. "I mean… wasn't it also because of disputes over, uh, different ethnic groups being separated by countries, and empires in the area, and national pride and shit?"

"I thought you didn't pay attention in history class," Dean shrugged.

"There was an acronym or something a teacher had us remember last year."

"So should I try and find mnemonic devices for you?"

"_Mnemo_-w_hat_ devices?" Castiel dragged Dean's notebook towards him, flipping through various doodles until he found a clean page.

"Mnemonic devices," Castiel repeated, glancing over to a condensed version of notes that Dean's teacher had given him as he began to write. Teachers were theoretically supposed to help student tutors, such as by giving them a summary of the textbook chapters a certain class was working on, or sample problems to do. At this point Castiel had gotten used to being ignored, or suffering through a week of onerous face-to-face hounding and long strands of e-mails before a teacher was actually worn down enough to help him. Once he figured that process out last year, he had stopped trying.

But this time Castiel figured Dean was worth it. "They're any way to help a person remember something, like acronyms, or rhyming things, or using images. So, one of the questions on your test is to list why the Cold War started, so…" he flipped the paper around.

"What does a news station have to do with the Cold War?" Castiel had written _MSNBC_ in capital letters halfway down Dean's page.

"It's an acronym. I just thought of it on the spot. M for Marshall Plan, S for Sputnik…"

"N for NATO?"

"Right. B for Bombs…" Dean smiled. "Like I said, on the spot." Castiel reminded him. "And C for Communism. Simple enough. Get it?"

"Yeah. I could remember this, probably. Can I use this?"

"Of course, that's what I'm here for."

"Now all I need is a way to remember those fucking Russian names," he said with ire. "I just know Gorbachev, kind of. And I can't even spell his name right."

"Hey," Castiel interrupted. "As someone who's a quarter-Russian on my Father's side, I take extreme offense to that."

"No shit, really?"

"Actually, really. My grandfather emigrated and married a Polish woman. My Mom's family is way more mixed."

"Wow. That's… actually pretty cool. I have no idea where I'm from."

"Well, Winchester is one of the most American names a person could have." Castiel said, shrugging.

"Isn't something-chester British?" Dean had gone back to resting the tip of his pen against his lips – like they needed more attention drawn to them anyway, Castiel thought. His mind stumbled at the strangeness of his subconscious thought.

"Sure, but how many British people do you actually know?" Castiel responded.

"More than you." Dean said.

"Yeah, okay." Castiel's tone was extra-heavy on the sarcasm.

"Smartass. I dated a chick from Wales, once. Does that count?"

"I have the impression that you'd date anyone from… anywhere. If you haven't already, at least."

Dean snorted. "Not from here. The borderline east coast thing _really_ isn't doing it for me. I never thought I'd miss Kansas chicks." Dean stating his availability – relationship status, Castiel reminded himself harshly – was another blow. So far they had dabbled in small talk, but Castiel had always been careful to reel conversation back in. Somehow he had gotten distracted – he was still blaming the goddamn pen for that one – and now he realized that their line of topic flowed as smoothly as water, trickling down into half a dozen subjects in just a few minutes.

Until Dean had outright mentioned past girlfriends, it was like the guy was sexless – he wasn't, obviously, Castiel didn't need Dean's confirmation to know that he was the type to always be with somebody; probably in an obnoxiously involved, public way, too, but it had never crossed his mind before. Though now in a rather cruel way to come full circle, the way he mentally pictured the other went from just Dean Winchester to Dean Winchester and a nameless woman in a movie theater. He would have groaned in frustration at how awful his brain was being today, but that might make Dean ask him what was wrong.

"Cas?" he realized he was zoning.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Like, what do you think about the girls here? You don't have anywhere to compare, right? You never moved, did you?"

Castiel thinned his lips for a moment, then ducked his head when he realized he'd be going pink in the face sooner rather than later. "I think we should get back to work."

"But we were just starting to get to know each other. We talked about mnemonic devices, then we talked about your heritage…"

"Dean." He said warningly, some of that old self-righteousness coming back. He hoped Dean wasn't going to fight him on this. He didn't want things to get… weird. Whatever counted as weird.

"Alright." Dean said after a moment. Castiel gave a breathless sigh of relief and lifted his head, watching Dean stare at the acronym for a moment before looking at Castiel again. "Last question. Can you do a Russian accent?"

"Do you have attention deficit?" Castiel asked. "We're trying to study, you know. Help you graduate? It's kind of more important than accents."

"But can you?" Castiel sighed, resting his head in his hands. "Okay, how about, you make more acronyms for me to study, and read them to me in an accent. It'll help me remember Russian names better. That's probably a mnemonic hearing device, right?"

He knew that if Dean had pulled this kind of shit when they first met, he would have had a headache coming on and would've wanted to jump out of the library windows, but now, hearing Dean butcher some Eastern European dialect, trying to get him to forget about the tutoring session in general and acting more like two friends than two students, Castiel couldn't imagine a better place to be.

**xxxx**

**A/N: I am definitely in the 'Dean is actually pretty smart' camp, in case you couldn't tell. Also, I'm a fan of Castiel being a bit out of the pop culture loop, but in this setting, that's more like, he's unfamiliar with really modern entertainment, versus not knowing anything at all. Coincidentally, he and Dean probably have a lot of 'old' stuff to talk about. _Watching TV makes you Smarter _is also an article I found in an AP book; it's written by Steven Johnson and appears on the New York Times website. It's a pretty interesting read even without the backdrop of Dean and Castiel.  
**


	3. Since When is the Friendzone a Bad Thing

"It's fucking cold," was the first thing that came out of Dean's mouth once they stepped outside the school. "Winter sucks."

"Indeed," Castiel mumbled, winding a scarf around his neck once, twice, before letting the ends hit the front of the black peacoat he was wearing. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling the cold metal brush of his keys as he did so. Dean had sense enough to wear an actual winter coat, though Castiel had noted that he had taken to wearing his leather jacket inside at all times, too. That made, what, four layers? Sometimes the leather was an auburn color, nicely fitted; other times it was a bit longer, a more traditional brown, and didn't have a 'lightly used' look so much as a 'taken on a wood chipper and survived' appearance. Dean had brusquely mentioned that, belonging to his Father, it was older than him.

For the first time they left the school building together, going out the same exit. "I'm glad that all my help in English is really starting to mould you into an eloquent speaker, Dean."

"You're just jealous you don't have my amazing charisma." Castiel sighed, watching puffs of warm air turn to mist. His nose was starting to go pink already.

"Obviously."

Dean was looking far off into the student parking lot, which seemed to stretch for half a mile since the two of them were only allowed parked in the last few rows – or because it was twenty degrees out and they were forced to be outside for more than ten seconds. "Where are you parked?"

"Not close enough," Castiel grumbled. "Second to last row, in the middle. On the right side."

"Oh cool, me too." Castiel didn't really get why Dean of all people would sound happy about that, but he let it slide. He had just pulled an A minus for that test on the Cold War, thanks to a few memorizing tricks that Dean wrote out at the top of his test before he even filled out his name. Castiel figured the guy deserved to take a break from his lenient hold he had on the whole bad boy persona. He was, essentially, walking a world-class nerd to his dumpy car, anyway.

Castiel really hoped Dean didn't see his car. It was about the same age as his parents – it was literally a family heirloom at this point, and unlike Dean, he wasn't willing to wear that archaic badge with pride. He knew that when it came down to it, he'd rather have some tuition fees taken care of than a Mercedes, but having the engine not stall every damn time he tried to go anywhere would have been nice.

They walked up the rows of Jeeps and trucks and SUVs and squished looking economy cars that came out nine years ago. The 1967 Chevy Impala, grimy and bulky and big, stuck out like a sore thumb from retro thug culture. He sighed, watched Dean's green eyes rove over every square inch of sheet metal and glass. Mentally he waited for Dean to laugh and tell him he was driving a hearse.

"Jesus," he muttered, and Castiel really wished Dean wouldn't say anything. "When was the last time you cleaned this poor thing?"

Castiel glanced first to Dean, then to the car, and back to Dean once more for good measure. "…What."

"Your car. If I had a '67 Impala, I don't think I'd let my _brother_ touch it; forget the three months of dirt that's on it right now."

"It's just a car," Castiel said defensively.

"_Just_ a car? Just a… Cas, this is like, _the_ car. Next to maybe the Batmobile, it's pretty much the best model of high-class machinery a guy could own." He reached out his right hand, fingers slowly, prudently, coming down to touch the hood. He sighed longingly at it. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

"…I didn't know you had a thing for old cars," Castiel said. If he knew, something told him he would've spent a lot more time online trying to learn as much as he could about them.

"She's not old," Dean said harshly.

"She?"

Dean rubbed the side of his neck in an embarrassed fashion. "Well, yeah." He said, putting both hands back in his pockets. "All cars are 'she'. Cars and guns. Every dude names cars and guns chick names."

"An Impala is an African animal," Castiel numbly replied, as if reciting trivia was his last line of defense to this bizarre conversation. "Similar to a gazelle."

"I'd call her baby." Dean offered. Castiel didn't think he was joking. "How'd such an… unworthy person like you come to even get the keys to this wonderful piece of American engineering?" Dean started tapping his fingers against the hood again, as if he couldn't physically _not_ touch the car, and Castiel tried not to snort.

"My grandfather decided to go out with a bang when he retired," Castiel said. "He was sixty-seven when he retired, so he got a sixty-seven car. And when he passed away fifteen years ago, he gave it to my parents. Of course, he used it until it was pretty much ready to be scrap metal…" he himself reached out to brush the old Chevrolet logo, his fingers slipping in between the perfect script of the letters. "But my parents figured that I'd need a car at some point. So they kept it in the garage and gave it to me."

"At least they didn't impound it." Dean said. "Are you going to shoot for a Volkswagen next? Or maybe some Euro-trash sports car?"

Castiel sent him an impatient look. "Money's tight with the whole going off to a prestigious university thing, Dean. Even if I _did_ get a crap load off in scholarships, I'm not going to waste my parent's money on a car."

Dean nodded. "That's good to know."

"I'm not that dumb," Castiel said. "And we're not that rich."

"You might have to be if you want to keep her around, what with replacement parts and all." Castiel was almost about to ask who 'her' was, but caught himself just in time.

"Yeah. I mean, some colleges don't even let you park on campus the first year. Half of the ones I want to go to are in the city, anyway. Amherst College has a lot of transit around town, so." He shrugged. "But yeah, it runs like shit." Dean looked horrified. "What? It's true. You work in a garage, right? Sometimes I can't even start her –" he growled under his breath. "_It_, if the weather's too cold, and I have to take the bus." He glanced down. "And she leaks. A lot. More than oil, too, I think."

"I bet she just needs some TLC," Dean said. "Have you brought her down to a shop?"

"Haven't had the cash. Or the time. I don't have anyone to pick me up, and by the time my parents get home, all the garages are closed. Then again, I guess I don't try that hard."

"I'll say," Dean huffed. "So… stalling? Is that a recent thing?"

"Recent since I started driving it last year."

"Did your parents drive it a lot before that?"

"Not really. It was an in-case-of-emergency vehicle. My grandfather drove it even when his license expired." He smirked. "Actually, you would've liked him. Apparently he was into cars about as much as you are."

Dean smiled. "He does sound pretty cool." He glanced back to Castiel's ride. "Well, if it's a recent problem, it might just be the fuel pump. And your water coolant might be leaking… there's a pump for that, too."

"If you don't mind being my chauffer to school for a few days, I wouldn't mind getting it looked at," Castiel added hopefully. Even if Dean made him late for an entire week.

"I can do you one better," Dean said. "I can just look at it for you. No charge."

"Really? Are you even, um, qualified to do that?"

"It's not like a need a license to poke around under my friend's hood or anything." Castiel bit his lip and tried not to think about how many wrong ways that sentence could turn out. Dean seemed to realize the same thing. "Forget I said that. But the offer still stands."

"Don't you work most days?"

"I get half of Saturdays off." Dean said. "Plus it's almost December. We're bound to get a snow day eventually."

"So, let me get this straight," Castiel said, leaning casually against the Impala. "You would be willing to sacrifice not just half a Saturday, but a potential _snow_ _day_, just to come by my house and fix my car?"

"And hang out with your sunshiny face for a few hours, sure. Doing both is payment enough for me. Do you know how jealous the guys at work would be if I told them I got my own classic muscle car to fix up?"

Castiel tried to ignore the compliment. Or jibe. Or flirtation. Whatever it was. Dean seemed almost too eager at the prospect, and really, watching Dean do something he was excited about for an afternoon?

"How 'bout it, Cas?"

Well… "I mean, if it makes you happy, I guess I can skip out on some extra-credit French essay to watch you work on my car. But only because I'm a good person."

"I could kiss you right now, Cas."

"Please don't." he held his hands up in defense even as his abdomen seemed to burn hot under his coat. "And speaking of work…"

"Right, right. Thanks for reminding me. I just lose track of time with you, you know? I'll see you tomorrow, right?"

"Like always," Castiel said, watching Dean give another lingering glance at the car before turning away. "Oh," he found himself saying, watching Dean look back. "I didn't ask you – what sort of car do you have?"

"Do you care?" Castiel shrugged.

"I care about what you like," he answered honestly.

"A '72 Dodge Challenger," he said. "Ice blue. That was a gift. It's a sweet ride, but it's no…" Castiel waved his hand.

"Alright, alright, I get it. I'll let you make out with my car later, okay? Don't be late for school _and_ your job in one day."

"Wait," Dean said. He seemed almost embarrassed. "Um, one thing. If it's the fuel pump, try turning the key to the first section, then turn it the rest of the way, and pump the gas pedal. It'll flood the engine and get your car to start. It's not great for the equipment, but it works in a pinch."

"Oh," Castiel said. "Thanks, Dean." he went to his own car and Castiel unlocked the door, slipping inside and tossing his bag to the passenger side. The car didn't start on the first try, typical. He bit his lip, then turned the key once so that only the radio was on, tuned to an instrument-only classical station that Dean would definitely mock him for if he could hear it. He continued turning the key all the way and stepping on the gas. He nearly let out a laugh when the car roared to life immediately after. Talk about wanting to kiss the other guy, he thought numbly, leaning back in his seat as he basked in the glorious feeling of getting the car to start without the usual embarrassment or hassle.

A moment later, a car blared its horn. Glancing in the rear view mirror, Castiel saw Dean's car – a bulky shot of pale blue – going by him, and he really did manage to get out a laugh.

**xxxx**

On a Friday in mid-November Dean saw a familiar figure crossing the parking lot. It was less than ten minutes to home room – not exactly a strange time for him to be slinking towards the school from the very back of the student parking lot, but that wave of crazy black hair? That dominating, upright stride full of purpose and means-business attitude? _No way_, Dean found himself thinking.

In fact, he might have started to jog for a few paces until he was able to actually confirm it _was_ Castiel he was seeing, and then proceeded to say hello by shoving his shoulder.

"Hey," Castiel said, slowing down a few paces to fall in step next to Dean.

"Hey yourself." Dean pulled out his phone to glance at the time. "Seven twenty-five," he chastised. "_Someone's_ gonna be late."

For a moment Castiel's cold stare made him think he was unwelcome. Finally, he sighed, shoulders sagging under the weight of his backpack – which looked at least twice as stuffed as Dean's, even on the days when he had a mountain of work to do. "I overslept."

"You know, I used to think that whole Mayan Calendar thing was total bullshit, but maybe this is a sign of the apocalypse."

"You're an ass." But even as he said that, Castiel was smiling.

"You love me," Dean said. "So, what were you doing?"

"Just... College stuff. I had to make sure everything was ready for early application."

"Which is...?"

"Midnight yesterday."

"Oh. So, wait, are you done with all that stuff now? Like, you're free? Well, besides uh, everything else you do, that is." Dean wondered if Castiel heard the earnest edge his voice took, or was too lost in the rambling way his words had gone.

"I got all my applications in, if that's what you mean." Dean nodded. "But most of the schools still monitor my grades."

"So no senioritis, then?"

"Afraid not. And none for you, either, since they're also allowed to look at the grades of all the kids that I help in the tutoring program." He glanced pointedly to Dean, before looking over to the long line of cars they were slowly going by. "Which is pretty much just you at this point."

Dean raised his eyebrows, an anxious feeling settling into him. "Really?" He tried not to stutter.

"Well, I don't have time for anyone else. Not that I mind, of course." He said in an assuring tone.

"I meant the grade thing. Harvard can see my shitty marks?"

"I'm not going to Harvard," Castiel muttered under his breath. "Didn't you sign a contract before you joined the program?"

"Um, yeah. I did."

"Okay, let me rephrase the question. Did you _read_ the contract before you joined the program?"

"Oh. Um. No." Castiel sighed in a way that suggested that he should have known better. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. It looked slightly neater than usual. It had an actual part in it, too. Castiel glanced down to his hand and rubbed his fingers, making a face. "Too much gel?" Dean said cheekily.

Castiel looked self-conscious, trying to inconspicuously wipe his fingers on the dress slacks he was wearing.

"I... have an appointment after school." They finally went up the steps leading to one of the entrances. A few other kids were skulking in at the last minute. Dean watched them disappear through the door before holding it open for the both of them. Castiel tossed a thanks over his shoulder before going inside. The school was mercifully warm, and most of the kids were milling about, albeit harried, which meant that they probably had, say, forty seconds to get to homeroom before they were marked late.

"Is that why you're dressed like double-oh-seven?" Dean asked. Castiel seemed confused, cocking his head at him. "The suit?" He clarified. On reflex Castiel looked down at his dress slacks, long sleeve white shirt, blue tie, and even the goddamn suit jacket he was sporting. It was a few steps above the semi-formal wear that he typically sported, and even the look of a button down and trousers straddled the line between acceptable and too dressy in their school. Still, Dean found himself thinking that Castiel would've been a pretty impressive secret agent. Even if he stuck out among all the sweatpant-clad students, he definitely looked kickass.

"I have an interview with Penn State."

"They – the Ivy league one, right?"

"Yes, the one with less than a 50% acceptance rate."

"What's the acceptance rate for University of Pennsylvania?"

"About twelve."

"Shit."

"Well," Castiel went. "There's a little more than ten-thousand undergraduates, and eleven-thousand post graduates, so twelve percent is still a lot of people. It's a bit of a stretch, but it's more of a target school for me than my reach school."

"Oh? And what magical academy wouldn't accept you the second you showed them your 4.8 GPA?"

"4.6," Castiel corrected. "And it's called Amherst. It's in Massachusetts, and it has about a twelve percent acceptance rate, too – except only about a thousand kids go there."

Dean whistled. "Okay, you found it. _That's_ your dream school?"

"Since I was thirteen." He took a left and Dean realized he was following Castiel to his homeroom.

"You know, I remember my brother being thirteen, and he's a nerd, but even he's not that obsessed." Castiel shrugged. "So, any other plans coming up?"

"Well, University of Pennsylvania might want me to make a second appointment with them, and I know that I have a tour coming up on… Tuesday."

"After school?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

Castiel suddenly turned to him; he looked visibly upset. "I'm sorry," he said, sincerity laid on thick. "I… when I scheduled that, it was months ago back before…" _back before we liked each other_, Dean figured. "If you want we can schedule something another day,"

Dean shook his head. "Can't. I work when I'm not in school, pretty much. I had to change my hours to get you. Hm, hang on," he slid a strap off his backpack and opened a section of it, digging around for a piece of paper that wasn't homework or a section of notes he and Castiel had slowly started to compile. He ripped out a piece of blank paper, searched another moment for a pen. "Turn around."

"Why?"

"Just turn around, I'm not going to stab you with a pen, I promise."

Castiel obediently went so that his back was to Dean. He rested the paper right below Castiel's neck, the only part that the backpack didn't totally hide. "Don't stain the suit," Castiel griped.

"Dork," Dean went and scrawled his cell phone number on the paper, a helpful 'Dean W.' written right above it.

"I actually left my trench coat in the car, if you can believe it."

"Probably for the best," Dean said, handing Castiel the note as he turned back around. "Suits are a good look for you, but a backpacking Fox Mulder? Not so much."

Castiel chose to glance confusedly at the piece of paper instead of at Dean's reference. "What's this?" he asked.

"My number. In case you need to remind me about any other tours you have coming up."

"I… oh."

"I think I told you before, but usually I get Saturday afternoons off, so if we need to get something done other than your car, you can try me then."

"Dean Winchester wanting to do schoolwork on a Saturday?" Castiel said, smiling. "Maybe that end of the world thing wasn't too off the mark, after all."

Dean opened his mouth, but just then the bell rang; a manufactured sound that was more of a piercing synthesized tone than an actual bell. "You're late." Dean said helpfully.

"I've never been late." Castiel supplied, looking around the abandoned hallways. "Not since… ninth grade." Dean clapped Castiel on the shoulder.

"That means you've earned it." He said. "One tardy isn't going to keep you out of Amherst."

Castiel glanced at him, then to the school, as if comparing the two; the building Castiel had pretty much dedicated his life to for the past four years, and Dean, who wasn't really much of anything. A friend, maybe, extending an offering, a subtle 'this doesn't always have to be about school' intent – even if Castiel wouldn't pick up on that in a million years.

He decidedly slipped the paper into the pocket of his trousers. "You know what? You're right. One tardy isn't going to kill me."

At that moment a teacher made his appearance – someone from the Math department that enjoyed sending Dean from the halls to the principal's office. "Winchester, that's the fourth time late this month," he said, barely giving Castiel a glance. "That's a two-hour after school."

Castiel's worried expression was batted away. "I'm used to it," he said simply. Castiel glared daggers at the back of the teacher's head, and Dean realized for the first time in a long time that, yeah, being blacklisted by staff you saw five minutes every other day in passing was discriminatory bullshit, and having Castiel – future President or CEO over there – agreeing with him, even silently, was something like a breath of fresh air. "We should probably get going," Dean said finally. He'd get to his detention on Monday; they might actually let him go if he said he only got slammed for his tardiness in passing. "No senioritis, remember?"

"Right…" Castiel said. They both had to head in different directions to get to their classes. Dean was already about fifteen feet from Castiel when he heard the other go, "I'll text you my number later, okay?"

"Awesome." He didn't look back. He didn't need to. Even when he finally got into his room with just a disgruntled sigh from the teacher, Dean couldn't even feel annoyed or defiantly apathetic. Instead something was curling in the back of his chest. And he felt happy.

Well.

Happy was one word for it.

**xxxx**

**A/N: Coincidentally, around the time I wrote this chapter my car started having its own problems - such as having a faulty fuel pump. I doubt anyone's getting their mechanical guidance from Supernatural fanfiction, but Dean's advice is _somewhat_ legit provided your car is on the older side. (though as a quick disclaimer, if you _are_ getting your car talk sessions from Supernatural fanfiction, um, don't. Because that's a horrible idea and you'll start thinking that engine oil is a reputable form of lubrication, too.) A vehicle like the Impala or the Challenger would need to have its fuel physically pumped into the engine sometimes, because the original mechanism for getting the gas there upon starting the engine could freeze or not work well; modern cars have a different way of injecting fuel into the engine, though I couldn't say when that change occurred, either. What I can say is for those of you that have never needed a fuel pump replaced, it can cost upwards of a few hundred dollars; mostly due to the manpower needed to drop the gas tank, drain it, and put it back in place. Good thing Dean likes Castiel - I mean, Castiel's _car_ - so much.  
**


	4. Letters in a Shoebox

Castiel was huddled on a stool in the garage, hands clasped together in his lap. He leaned over the workbench, where a few notebooks and piles of papers surrounded him. "And what did the Taft Offensive do?" he asked.

"Um," Dean said from underneath the Impala. A wrench screwed something in tight, making a few _crick_-_crick_ noises. Castiel waited patiently, imagining Dean stilling his hands after that and staring at the numerous exposed parts of the car, trying to connect the information he'd need for the mid-term as easily as he had connected a new spark plug into the Impala. "Didn't it prove that there was like, no way to win the Vietnam War, and Americans started to distrust the government's reports on the battles?"

"And who stated that?"

"…Lyndon Johnson?"

"He wasn't a politician." He heard the wrench go again.

"Oh, Cronkite. Something Cronkite. William?"

"Walter. But you're probably fine if you only memorize the last name. What did Lyndon Johnson say about him?"

"'If I lost Cronkite, I've lost middle America.'" He repeated.

"Awesome," Castiel leafed through a few more pages from Dean's notebook. At this point the other could be trusted to take his own notes, leaving Castiel more time to focus on his own workload, which was piling up more and more as the fall semester came to a close. It was December 8th, and mid-terms started Monday the 17th and didn't end until that Friday. Then school was out for eleven days, until after New Year's. Dean had memorized the vacation dates about as well as most of the history facts they were working through. Occasionally Castiel would run across a few doodles, more sporadic than earlier entries; trees, eyes, random scribbles – Dean's artistic talent didn't go beyond that, though Castiel had never been a good drawer himself.

Once or twice Dean wrote out little notes in the margins, presumably pieces that caught his interest. Something like, _Led Zeppelin II came out this year_, or during some review notes on the Civil Rights movement, he'd written some rather profound combinations of cuss words next to some of the horrific incidents that he had recorded, along with a general musing of why peaceful leaders always ended up getting shot.

Sometimes he made notes to Castiel specifically, underlining a bullet point and saying _Cas, what's this word mean? _Or pointing arrows to some names and dates saying, _Got a mnemonic device for this? _Even better, he'd put a star next to some book Castiel had mentioned, or some rare piece of media Castiel knew and mentioned once. The remarks were teasing in and of themselves, but Dean continued to do it. It was cute.

They were together at the moment – on a Saturday – because Dean had sent him a text message; it had started snowing, probably not bad enough to close the roads, but the garage was dead enough that he got off a few hours early and had texted Castiel if he had anything planned. He was actually trying to put the finishing touches on a lab report he'd done in Advanced Physics, but Dean didn't need to know that.

Instead, the other had knocked on his door and asked him to open the garage while he got his supplies out. His 'supplies' had consisted of a massive tool box, apparently one that belonged to him, no less; an automotive creeper he had borrowed from the shop, a change of clothes, and about three plastic bags filled with a few pieces of odds and ends that probably had names just as long as some chemical formulas Castiel once had to learn, but none of the hardware was recognizable to him. Castiel was pretty sure he might have seen cars being repaired in _Grease_, maybe, when he was eight and actually thought the film was a substantial form of entertainment because he didn't know any better. But on the other hand he wasn't exactly looking at John Travolta for mechanical advice.

"How's your baby coming along?" Castiel asked politely.

"Well," Dean said, his feet moving a little even as he remained wedged under the car. "I found some transition fluid leakage down here; I think some coolant mixed with that, too."

"Is that bad?"

"Kind of. It's typical, though. Transmission fluid just helps with lubricating other sections of the car, so there isn't much friction. I think you might need a new filter."

"And the coolant?"

"Same thing." He wheeled himself out from under the car and Castiel could see why he brought an extra shirt. He had a few splotches of darkened oil on his white T-shirt, which looked pretty well used already. He sat up, cracking his back and fishing a salmon colored rag out of his back pocket, wiping off a wrench before cleaning his hands. "How're we doing?"

"With History?"

"Yeah. Am I going to pass, do you think?"

"I've been telling you for the past week that you're fully capable of getting a B on this mid-term. Maybe even an A. If you keep trying there's nothing to worry about."

"Right." He slowly stood up and nudged the creeper further under the car so he wouldn't step on it. "I'm not used to, I don't know, things coming easy? Not with school at least. Since like, sixth grade."

Dean crouched over the engine, slipped out the dipstick, and wiped it off before sticking it back into its container. He briskly walked to the driver's side of the car, started it up on the second turn of the keys. No orchestra music played, though when Dean had turned the engine on for the first time upon his arrival, he had given Castiel a deprecating glance before clicking the music off completely. Now there was just a rumble, and Dean meandered back, checking the fluid levels again before cutting the engine. There was a small window on the side of the garage Castiel had opened as a precaution, but he could still smell what he figured was the prevalent scent of an auto-body shop; the faint notion of sweat being masked against various fluids and metals and waxes covering everything like an invisible layer of paint. The hood of the car was already propped open, and Dean leaned forward enough that his head nearly brushed the metal of the hood. Castiel watched as Dean angled himself, bending his back, thighs resting against the bumper, a small bit of grease smeared gray against his temple. If he had been sitting in a chair, he'd probably be slouching into his desk in a similar position, but here Dean was wide-eyed and attentive like he was performing open heart surgery, or an imitation of how Castiel looked when he was re-reading some old favorite of his.

"Does this come easy to you?" Castiel asked.

"What?"

He nodded towards the Impala even though Dean was facing away from him. "Cars. Are they your AP Language and Comp?"

He heard a low laugh spill out of Dean's lips. His hands were obscured, leaving Castiel to watch the expanse of his back, parts of his spine casting shadows and faint bumps against the cheap, thin material. He imagined the rough fingers of Dean's hands working in a brutally delicate way against the parts of the machine with a sort of exuberant confidence. "Yeah," Dean said, his voice warm, "That's one way to put it."

Castiel had learned a while ago that Dean Winchester wasn't stupid. He could cook and clean and pay the bills while his Father worked states away, and his Mother and brother remained back in Kansas, not divorced but unwilling to uproot their lives for John's job as easily as Dean's martyrdom and loyalty allowed. He knew certain kinds of Math and certain kinds of Sciences; he read the paper and could recite entire seasons of sitcoms and hours of movies from just his memory. Cars were his passion; he could walk among rows of nuts and bolts and pick out just the right one you needed. He could diagnose engine trouble like a doctor could the flu, and the grace he had with handling any piece of machine with a registered horsepower put him on level with any masterful author or professor. But he didn't get good grades – until now, at least, he didn't. And Castiel found that so incredibly cruel that it took him by surprise. He was used to the 'life is unfair' spiel, but watching Dean so enthralled and in his element, he had to silently demand why Dean couldn't be in a better niche. He sighed to himself; Dean had obviously come to terms with this issue a long time ago, and it wasn't his problem, he reminded himself – not that it actually mattered, since he found himself unable to _not_ care about Dean, anyway.

It was almost impossible to recall a time where Castiel didn't consider Dean one of the closest friends he'd ever had.

**xxxx**

"Okay," Dean said about an hour later. He wiped some sweat from his forehead. "I managed to put in a new fuel pump, and the engine just started without any weird hiccups, but make sure to try it a few more times at random intervals before Monday, okay? If it starts acting up, call me and I'll be your chauffer like you offered before." He began packing away his tools, and Castiel eased off the stool he had been on for nearly three hours.

"I think my ass fell asleep," he said at length. Dean laughed.

"Probably not the best seat in the house." He opened the garage and started to pile his things back into his car. The snow hadn't stopped since earlier that morning, but it didn't seem to be falling down particularly hard. When Dean got back inside his shoulders were covered in slowly melting patches of white, staining the dark shoulders of his shirt.

"You wanna come in for a bit?" Castiel offered, watching Dean cross his arms from the cold. "There's free coffee."

"Can't say no to that," Dean said, and then the two of them were standing at the island in the middle of Castiel's kitchen, holding cups in their hands and relishing in the warmth of the house.

"I was thinking," Castiel spoke up, "That we went over most of the History notes, so if you want you can head out."

"What else did we have to work on?"

"Well, I got hold of some practice packets for English, and there's some grammar stuff we have to look over for the writing course, but we don't have to do that today, if you'd rather go home."

Dean shrugged. "There's not much to do at home."

"There's not much to do here, either."

"Well there's you," Dean replied evenly. "That's something. Can I ask, where are your parents, anyway?"

"You're not the only one who comes home to an empty house more often than not." Castiel said, shrugging and taking a sip from his mug. It was handmade pottery his Mom had gotten from some woman at work, or a friend of a friend she knew from work; something like that. Besides the homemade plates and glasses and serving wear, the kitchen itself was mass-marketed and consequently unremarkable. It was white wood and stone countertops; pretty much purchased directly out of a Crate and Barrel catalog. Aside from a few stray papers and fresh clementines in the fruit bowl, it didn't look like anyone actually lived in there.

"They're working?"

"My Dad's a representative lawyer for an insurance company, and my Mom is a project manager for an ad agency, so yeah, they're pretty busy. So I'm usually alone most of the time."

"Talk about being a self-made man."

"Well, they were around more a few years ago, but once they thought I was old enough to take care of myself…" he saw Dean's eyes go gentle.

"Yeah, I get it." He said. "My Dad's the same way. I mean, it's not his fault his promotion takes him all over the country. It sucks, but it'll be good when Sam's old enough to go to college. He started ninth grade this year, and he's probably going to Yale or something."

"What about you?" Castiel asked, cocking his head. "Have you thought about college?" Dean snorted.

"Cas, I'm barely gonna pass this year; college isn't really in the cards for me."

"You're intelligent, Dean," Castiel persisted. "You'll graduate, and you have so many options – technical schools, community –"

" – I said _drop_ it, okay?" Dean griped, his tone hard. "I figured out that college isn't my thing. I know you're worlds away from people who choose not to go there, but believe me, they exist."

Castiel took a nervous breath. "Okay." He said. "Okay. Sorry." They sat quietly for a few more minutes. Dean looked out the French doors leading to the back patio and preoccupied his time in watching the snow gently fall to the ground.

"Um," he went after some time. Castiel expected him to excuse himself and leave. "If you want I can take a look at the practice tests you were talking about."

"Sure," Castiel said slowly. "They're in my room." He waited for Dean to drain his cup before he moved down the hallway and up the staircase. He realized belatedly that Dean was the first person he knew from school that had been up in his room for more than two years. There had been maybe one occasion where he'd had a person over for a project, and they ventured up to his room for supplies. But other than that? His bedroom was pretty much sealed off from the general public. He tried to think if he'd left underwear lying around, or something terribly compromising or embarrassing… he had some framed art on his walls, did that count? Was there some stigma between putting wall décor in a frame versus tacking it up? He hadn't felt this worried about a friend's opinion since… middle school, he supposed.

The two of them went through the aperture. Dean looked around, but didn't say anything. Like most of the house, the decoration was uniform and somewhat monochrome; it fed into the apparent modern style of housing; two opposite walls were the lightest shade of gray, and the other two were some periwinkle color that mirrored the sky on days when most people would prefer to stay in bed. The two windows in the room were elongated and had dark blue curtains that went to the floor. His bed was decently tousled with sheets and a thick comforter, but his desk was the one part of the house – and the one part of his life – that certainly operated on chaotic organization. Post-it notes aligned the border of the desktop PC he had, along with some of the overhanging shelves around him. Papers were stacked in clumps, slipped in between large books, and placed on top of his key board so he wouldn't forget them. Book shelves were nailed in arbitrary places on the walls, six of them, most crammed with novels of varying looks and sizes and flashing a plethora of vibrant colors that popped against the indistinct walls and hanged replicas of Monet and Theodore Rousseau. "Well," he said, taking in Dean take it all in. "Make yourself comfortable, I guess."

Dean made some affirming noise, not sitting down anywhere but instead slowly meandering around the border of the room, inspecting this or that. Castiel still felt his ears perked, eyes trying to scan Dean's expression every time he was in sight, to see if maybe some book held him accountable for judgment. His desk was where all his schoolwork was kept, so he began to leaf through a few of the stacks – he hadn't made a 'tutoring' pile, so he went through some miscellaneous papers instead, but wasn't getting any luck. Where was it… out of short form desperation he flipped through a manila folder that had copies of his college applications, Amherst on top, of course. It wasn't necessary now, but more than once he would be in the middle of doing something and just take the folder from his desktop, flip it open and stare at it, wondering if he'd done enough, thinking about what he would do, where he would go, if that school wasn't the option.

Dean's packet was there, right when he flipped the folder open. He stared at the two papers side by side for a second before finally just taking what he needed, shutting the folder back down on the small purple _A_ that ran as one of the college's insignias.

Before Castiel could say 'I found it,' Dean spoke up.

"I didn't know you played violin."

Castiel felt his entire body – his heart, his lungs, every cell in his being – just abruptly screech to a split-second halt.

"…I used to," he wheezed out, trying to regain control of his facilities. "Why?" But already knew; when he turned around, Dean was standing before one of the bookshelves that was only half filled – one portion instead had several photographs on it in sleek silver frames. There was a picture of his parents, a studio-shot picture of him from when he was still small enough to be held, some of his extended family, a trip he'd taken to Italy the year before, and way in the back, pressed far enough behind other frames that a cursory eye would never see it, was the summary of Castiel's entire turning point, and the biggest line of hypocrisy he'd found himself living in.

Dean had moved a few photos to either side, pointing at a picture of a twelve year old Castiel; less gaunt, with a more orderly hairstyle, sporting an uncharacteristically sunny smile rimmed with braces. He was in a folding chair in some dark outdoor setting, another man a few years older than him leaning over his shoulder; hair light brown and bushy. Both of them clasped violins in their hands.

"I was told I was very good at it," he nodded to the piece of evidence confirming such. His hands clenched around Dean's paper. "That was my last year."

"Oh." Dean said. "Who's that?"

Castiel took a very long breath. "My brother, Gabriel." A name he hadn't spoken in front of another person since he was thirteen. "I was twelve, he was nineteen. In that… it was a concert. They used to let some of the gifted middle school kids play in a spring concert with the high school here."

"He's… short," Dean observed. "Did he reach a growth spurt, at least?"

"I wouldn't know," Castiel responded, feeling half dead. "I haven't seen him since seventh grade. That's one of the last pictures taken of him."

Dean could tell Castiel didn't mean Gabriel had died. So instead he asked, "Why?"

"You know," Castiel began testily, his voice raising a pitch. "It's really hard to not drop bombshells on you if you keep asking about them." He recalled with cold clarity how the first six months of seventh grade had gone; questions from his friends, hushed arguments with his parents, a telephone that rang at the strangest times of the day – Rachel and he had been friends then; _actual_ friends, and they had spent long hours talking about what happened to his brother, where he had gone off to.

And then, one day, it stopped. Everything stopped. And everyone who knew Castiel knew that. Except, of course, for Dean.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I just… I was wondering, I guess. I mean you never mentioned you had a brother."

"I don't think I do, anymore." Castiel said. He had gotten closer to Dean, though he refused to look at anything but the photograph. "He really was the better half," he continued. "And I mean that. He was the funny one, the energetic one, the guy who had a million different talents – who somehow managed to balance social life and sleep and school perfectly. He graduated class president with four dates to the senior prom and an acceptance letter from Berklee."

"Wow,"

"And… I don't hate him. I think everyone expects me to, but I probably could've ended up like him anyway, if I wanted to. We both started out with the violin. He got into piano later. And guitar. And… the tambourine, I'm not too sure what inspired him to do that one."

"Free spirit?"

"Yeah." Castiel frowned. "Too free. In college he got involved with some… weird people, started slacking." His eyes didn't stray from Gabriel's face. "Halfway through sophomore year, he comes home for winter break, says he's dropping out. My parents – God, I never thought they could yell that loud. When he left, Berklee said they never received him. He just…"

"Vanished," Dean finished quietly.

"Yeah."

"…Do you think he's…?"

"Dead? No." Castiel slowly looked at Dean, whose eyes were wide and concerned, presumably for him. But he had his own time to feel bad for himself, for his family, he didn't want anyone else doing that, either. He strode to his closet. Most of it was comprised of the dressy things he worse – his button ups and slacks, and his favored trench coat. Interspersed between the pastels were a few T-shirts and hoodies that he wore only around the house – in order to keep the myth of becoming a future business leader intact by never going casual. Above all the clothes were a few boxes, gathering dust on a high shelf. He pulled one down, a faded purple that had once held sneakers, made in a size he had outgrown a long time ago.

He sat on the bed, Dean slowly following him, box in the middle. He nodded towards his friend. "Go on," he said, and Dean very slowly, prudently, opened the box.

Inside were letters. Dozens of them. Stapled messages on stationary or printer paper or a few scant words inside a card or on the back of a postcard. It was like something out of a romantic movie, except that it made Dean feel sick to his stomach, looking over the crinkled white of the paper like he was staring at the fouled bones of Gabriel, instead of just some of the things he had written.

"A few months after, he sent me a card. There was no return address, it just said, 'Cas, I'm fine. Don't worry, I'm not coming back.' And that was it. I guess he just didn't want a private investigator out looking for him. My parents tore up the card," he clasped his hands in his lap. "Tore up everything else he owned, too. The piano, his furniture, his clothes… everything was sold or given away or tossed out. Within a month it was like he never existed. They got every photograph, too. Burned them, cut them up. Except that one." He glanced back at the photo of a very different life, but like usual it gave him no answers, just betrayed an outdated age from a useless moment in a useless past. If he let that photo burn, and the rest of the mail, then there would be no solid piece of evidence that a Gabriel Novak had ever even existed.

"He sends me letters," Castiel said. "On my birthdays, usually. Sometimes on his, they're just addressed to me, my parents think… I don't know what they think, but they haven't found out. He'll tell me stories; street names he walked on and people he met, but nothing that I could pin down. He doesn't mention towns, or states – all I know if that he's somewhere in America, and that's only because of the postage marks. Some day he'll probably stop writing, but…" and Castiel suddenly stopped speaking, apparently having run out of things to say.

Dean couldn't think of how to respond. He glanced down into the box because he wasn't sure what Castiel would look like, or if he could handle it. Sitting next to him with just a six inch wide, flimsy cardboard box separating them, in Castiel's room where no one would come in, after the other had just told him what sounded like the biggest secret the other could muster – how could he do anything, after that?

"Why did you tell me all this?" he whispered delicately. Perhaps Castiel thought he was another Gabriel waiting to happen; another older brother about to walk out on his family because of shitty grades and a lack of foresight. Maybe Castiel was making the whole thing up.

"I showed you because I thought you'd like to know, and I decided that I'd like you to know," Castiel's tone was sincere enough that Dean's mental doubts paused. "Do you know how it feels to have a brother that no one talks about? It's not even like he died – it's like he was never born. And, I can't tell anyone because they…" he huffed. "I think you might be the only person to know where I'm coming from, Dean."

"Me?"

"You know I wasn't always one of those AP kids, right? It started somewhere, and Gabriel running away was what changed, well, everything."

"But how?"

Castiel licked his lips. "Like, I always thought I was a normal kid. School, sports, friends,"

"Violin,"

"Violin," Castiel echoed. "And then Gabriel just leaves… and suddenly – and suddenly we're the family that gets whispered about whenever two people get together and start talking. Gabriel's not blacklisted, Gabriel just disappears, and suddenly everyone – even my parents, start looking at me, thinking that I'm the other shoe."

"They're waiting for you to drop, too," Dean murmured.

"Mm-hm. So, I stopped playing music. I did lacrosse, stopped that, too. I started studying more. I thought, no more music, no more sports, because those aren't economical. English is – History is – Math and Science and _school_ is. And then I decided I would go to Amherst, I wouldn't drop out, I'd become a doctor or a professor or something that wasn't so iffy, and, and… I wouldn't end up doing whatever Gabriel is doing right now.

"It was hard at first, I guess. I stopped talking to my friends so much, stopped doing things that I used to like, but I found other interests, succeeding became the thing that I did; I was just working towards an end goal. I was pushing myself, and everyone I ever talked to said that was a good thing."

"You don't sound so sure," Dean ventured.

Castiel looked at him. "I'm not," he said quietly. "I was for a really long time. I thought good grades meant a good school meant a good everything else. But then…" he sighed. "Then I started tutoring you, and for the first time in years I remembered how I used to be, and… you're the first person to give me that perspective."

"What, that you're more than just some machine like everyone seems to think you should be?"

"Pretty much. And," he sighed. "I think I want to thank you for that, but at the same time…"

"It's a lot easier if you kind of keep it the way things were," Dean offered neutrally. Castiel nodded, turning his body so he was facing Dean a bit more. The house stretched large and silent around the pair, and the two of them could feel something – some subtle shift that was like the settling of all parts into place. Dean let his eyes flick over Castiel's face – from his hair to his eyes, to the way his mouth opened just enough to insinuate he was about to do something, anything, and Dean was already hanging on to whatever that would be. Castiel's fingers wrapped harshly into the sheets, and he was working on saying another, probably important thing, an inkling of a half-formed idea that he had been trying to avoid for a while. Maybe there was a reason why the two of them got along so well now; maybe he told Dean about his brother not because it needed to be said, but because he needed something to prove.

"I told you because, you're different." Castiel whispered, like this was another secret he couldn't afford to tell. "And maybe because…" How close were they? He could feel warmth and anxiety alike drenching his body, and Dean was still staring at him with heated green eyes, and maybe he was about to do something crazy and uncalled for, but Dean wasn't pulling away or laughing it off, and maybe – maybe he _deserved_ a little bit of craziness, a tiny, little rebellion right in the hidden, private corner of his bedroom where no one would ever find out. "Dean," did he speak? He could feel the warmth of the other's arm, his face, and however close they had been, it was nothing compared to now. And even with that thought it felt like they were about to fall into each other, and then –

The front door slammed.

"Castiel!" that was his Father, setting his keys on the counter, putting down his briefcase, about to yell again and ask why there was another car in the driveway, and the two of them practically raced down the steps, Castiel slamming his bedroom door shut on the way, and not even half a minute later Dean was out of the house, in his car, driving off down the road at some ridiculous speed.

Maybe Castiel had just been saved from making some dire mistake, but even as he let that thought wash over him, he put a hand to his stomach, slowly going back to his room. His pulse was heavy in his belly, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine what it would have been like if he had kissed Dean Winchester.

**xxxx**


	5. About Damn Time

Dean was trying not to make it awkward. It hadn't been a week since he visited Castiel and started to see the other guy in a whole other light.

Well, okay, to be honest he had started to like the guy before his little exposition party. But still. What they had was a tangible thing. It was affinity for old TV and movies from the sixties. It was the Car. It was the freedom to just say "fuck it" and hang out; the conscious decision to put the metaphorical guns away. It was being, underneath confidence and apathy, totally, paralyzingly scared about the future - about life after high school.

Dean thought that if he heard such admissions from another A-push lackey, he'd be thrilled. But hearing Castiel voice such things in the privacy of his bedroom to Dean, who might have been the first person to hear such things in detail, was one of the most reassuring feelings he'd had in a long time. Neither of them had all the answers, but just knowing someone who was suffering in a similar way to you made it a little more bearable.

So Dean refused to lose what they had.

Whatever that was.

This was the last Thursday they would be together before mid-terms started, and then it was Winter break. Their session was just a flurry of Dean breezing through three quarters of all the review material and the two of them slowly growing sidetracked. Around them other students were quietly cramming in groups; all walks of teenage life sharing the limited space to study – or just freak out for a few hours. Once one a trio of girls dressed in thin-knits and layered skirts told them to shut the fuck up, and they both moved to quietly looking over their own notes. It was amazing how quick Dean had gone from never being able to study to… well, having a decent chance of passing every subject with flying colors.

So maybe things had gotten a little close and personal over the weekend, but neither of them seemed to let it weigh on them now. Personal space was so overrated, anyway.

The session was over way too soon. They stumbled outside, the sky going gray and street lights already casting a small ring of light on everything. Most of the dedicated students – Castiel's crowd, it seemed – had streamed out with them, everyone catching rosy cheeks and being thoroughly buried in layers of clothes. Dean walked Castiel to his car, which kind of seemed to be another 'thing' he had started to do, ever since they talked about the Impala the first time. He'd stare fondly at it, Castiel would roll his eyes, say something smart, and they'd be on their way.

Today they stood in peace for a bit; watching lines of cars slowly drive down the parking lot.

"I hate when it gets crowded like this," Castiel muttered.

"You _would_ be anti-social."

"It's like this when they have after-school games."

"You must be thrilled football's over then, huh?"

"Mm." there was a light dust of snowflakes coming down; it was too cold to have them turn into shapes. They waited in silence for another minute. "Did you ever do sports?"

"Trying to fit in a dumb jock stereotype, Cas?" he saw Castiel's lips twinge upwards a little bit; there was something rather dignified about the way the other smiled – a delicate way his lips turned. It made Dean feel happy he had that effect on the other, as if the smile was a rare thing when in all honesty, it seemed like they had been laughing together for… well, ever – their distrust and animosity towards one another as fleeting and unmentionable as the snow melting into the pavement. "I did some baseball in middle school. I joined a team in the first high school I went to but," he shrugged. "My grades, my Dad moving us so soon, I figured I shouldn't really bother after that, so I didn't."

"It's funny how life gets in the way of the things we enjoy." Castiel commented after an instant. Dean turned his head.

"You know, if it's not too late for me, it's definitely not too late for you." Castiel stared at him – or rather, they stared at each other. The revelation was as new to Dean as it was to Castiel. As scary as the world around them was shaping up to be, every new generation stepping up to plate was made to seize it. Whatever it was; a degree, a career, maybe just a cool car and a great friend.

The same three wannabe H&M poster girls strolled by and suddenly the two of them realized that they were leaning against the trunk of a car looking at each other for absolutely no reason.

"I still have some studying –"

" – Work's gonna be hell if I don't –"

They paused, sighing into the frigid air. "So, I guess this is goodbye," Castiel said. "We probably won't see much of each other until next year." He stuck his hand out; it was the only thing besides his face that wasn't totally obscured by boiled wool and denim and down. "So…"

Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel without a second thought; right across his shoulders, cheek pressed into the warmth of his neck and the scratchy material of his scarf. "None of that you-done-well-kid bullshit, okay, Cas?" he murmured. He felt Castiel's arms go around him not a second later, and their arms wrapped even tighter around each other.

It couldn't have lasted for more than five seconds, Dean thought, taking a step back, watching Castiel unlock the Impala door and give a final wave to Dean before starting the engine – on the first try, of course.

Five seconds or five hours, Dean swore he could feel Castiel's arms the entire drive to work, clenching around him, tighter, tighter.

And he wasn't even bothered by it.

**xxxx**

Vacation wasn't the best time for philosophy, but Dean figured that Castiel's over-achieving tendencies had somehow transferred over to him. He spent Christmas back home, Mom, Dad, Sam, Bobby, the whole family. In past years he had counted down to the hour until he would see his Dad pull up to their house, and they would scarcely spend an hour inside their excuse for a home before they were back on the road, trying to see if they could cover a thousand miles in twenty-four hours. He would spend as much time as he could with old friends, with his brother, with everything he had abandoned.

This year, it was a little different.

Naturally it was Sam who pointed it out. "Who have you been texting all day?" was the question that kind of threw him for a loop. Dean made friends wherever he went. It was hard not to, unless he never talked, and even then some girl would probably chat him up at some point; but he never really kept such a close contact with them. School, fine, some odd weekend party, sure. But when he found himself more willing to send Castiel pictures of what his childhood home looked like, room by room, instead of checking to see if the neighborhood had changed since the last time he visited? That was a new development.

So he told Sam about Castiel. Then he told his Mom, and Dad, and Bobby of course, about the total dick of tutor he had that ended up saving his ass and becoming one of his best friends; about the reason why he was actually doing well in school; about how he managed to get his hands on a 1967 Chevrolet Impala. And it was all a real heart-warming story, if you were willing to be a girl about it – for evident reasons, Sam was pretty thrilled.

Days went on; he woke up at seven in the morning because his pillow was buzzing. Castiel texted him a simple 'Merry Christmas, Dean.' Which was about as generic as you could get, but made him kind of smile anyway. He promptly sent back a 'Right back at you. Thanks for waking me up, freak.' There might have been a smiley-face added at the end, but you'd have to break both of Dean's arms before he told anyone that.

It was little exchanges like that, all through the seven days he was home, that made him slowly realize something. How Castiel was different; how their friendship was different; how… well senior year was probably an ideal time for things to get crazy, right?

He spent the entire car ride back to Pennsylvania mulling over that line of thought.

The day he got back and John was already bound back for Utah, he sent Castiel another out-of-the-blue message. '_Hey_,' he wrote. His fingers were trembling. '_Can I come over around twelve?_'

**xxxx**

The doorbell rang five minutes past noon, and Castiel was the first to answer it, holding his breath as if he expected Dean to have somehow irreversibly changed over the past two weeks they hadn't talked face to face. But it was still Dean Winchester standing at the door; the same old sandy hair, green eyes, and freckled complexion waiting for him, wearing an outfit that looked made for urban kids shooting for a mountain man style – something that didn't look pretentious or superfluous on Dean. "Hey," He shut the door and took a step forward, onto the front porch. "How was vacation?"

Dean smiled. "Great. Yours?" And just like that, they were back to normal.

At some point Dean admitted that he had more or less gushed about Castiel to his entire hometown before he left.

"Well, I hope your family likes me."

"Apparently they're trying to put you up for sainthood."

"Maybe it helps that I'm named after an angel," Castiel said idly, hands in his pockets. He sniffed.

"Cold?"

"I'm fine. So, what else?"

"Oh!" his eyes grew wide, as if he suddenly remembered why he had stopped by in the first place. "Uh, I was curious about how I did on the mid-terms, and I shot an e-mail to the counselor's office…" he took out his phone and moved his thumb along the screen.

"They sent you your scores?"

"…Just on the bubble-in parts." His fingers stopped moving, presumably having found whatever evidence he had been looking for. "I kind of made a persuasive essay out of it, how it would improve my morale and I would pass on the news to you, my ever benevolent tutor, since you were supposed to get your college acceptance letters and it would be nice to know if I would help your chances."

"And you said writing wouldn't be a useful skill."

"Thanks smartass, do you want the grades or not?"

"Sure, sure. I want to see if all that hard work paid off."

Dean huffed. "Okay, so… Supplemental Writing; the multiple choice was only half of my grade, but out of eighty questions, I got sixty-seven right. So that's an eighty-three, eighty-four,"

"And if you don't get at least a ninety on the essay portion I think I might have to sue the school." Dean chuckled. "And History?"

"Two hundred questions, plus a few short response questions, so the grade won't change much, and I only got nineteen wrong."

"So that's a ninety."

"Mm-hm."

"Okay, last one."

"A hundred and forty-five questions, two essays… I got a hundred and twenty-five right. But," Dean said, a smile coming through as he scrolled through the message. "Apparently the proctor for the test had started grading these the second school got out, and I was some shining star of the batch she had gone through, writing-wise."

"And you know this because…?"

"She got drunk and loud during the staff Christmas party, allegedly, of course. According to the counselor."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"So, you're passing – that's what I'm hearing."

"I am," Dean said. "More than that – I'm awesome."

"You are," Castiel said sincerely, watching how Dean seemed to practically glow at the concept. Castiel couldn't help but warmly smile back at him. "Dean, I can't tell you how happy I am for you."

"Be happy for yourself, too. I wouldn't have been able to do this without your help, Cas. Give yourself some credit." Castiel looked down at his feet, scarcely believing that Dean had come to his house just to pour out the news to him. It was probably the highlight of his vacation, just having Dean around him again – and maybe that was a little pathetic, that during one of the happiest seasons of the year he just wanted to see Dean for five minutes while he slowly froze on the front of his porch, but it didn't change the fact that he felt touched just because Dean couldn't wait to confide in him over the news.

"Thanks for telling me." Castiel said.

"No problem. I know it's kind of weird to say, but I missed talking to you, you know? Texting isn't the same."

"Trust me, I know. It's not like we see each other around much during school, anyway." He bit his lip.

"Like, I'm actually… well, okay, I'm not looking _forward_ to going back to school, but I don't want to chew my own arm off to avoid going, so that's an improvement." He slipped his phone back into his pocket. "And get this; the counselor even said that I might not even _need_ a tutor anymore."

Castiel felt his mood crumple a bit. "Oh," he said, unable to properly respond. "Good – good for you."

"Mm-hm. I mean, obviously I'm not…" he made some gesture that Castiel got the impression he should have understood. "So, what about you, college boy? How many acceptance letters did you get?"

Castiel forced himself to focus. "I got most of them…" he started. He had been meaning to tell Dean later, once the break ended, show him exactly how much of a impact he had made in only a handful of months – but then again, tutoring sessions might be ending too soon for that, and he wouldn't get another chance. Maybe this was how Dean wanted to say goodbye. Twisting his fingers together in the pocket of his jacket, he opened his mouth and said the six words that once would have ended his life.

"I didn't get accepted to Amherst." He stated calmly, feeling a strange sense of detachment to what he was saying, as if a long term personal failure was no more devastating than saying his car was low on gas.

Dean didn't take the news nearly as well. He took a step forward, eyes wide, mouth propped open a bit as if he had been about to congratulate Castiel before stopping dead in his tracks at the news. "Oh my God, Cas," he whispered, like he had lost the will to speak. "I am so sorry."

"It's -"

"Were you about to say 'it's okay'? Really? I call bullshit on that," a stab of indignant anger fueling his voice this time. "You've had your entire life focused on that school for _years_ - since you were a _kid_; that's what you told me. And everything you've worked for, everything you've sacrificed – all for nothing? There's no way that's just _okay_. That's not," he huffed. "It's not fair."

"Life's not fair," he replied.

"You earned it," Dean grumbled.

Castiel looked up at the white expanse of sky. He had gotten the news four days ago, and he had spent a good amount of time just feeling numb. It wasn't quite disappointment, or sadness, or the rage that Dean felt on his behalf. It was more like emptiness – it was the absence of… _everything_. He had sort of expected that the approval from Amherst would have suddenly validated everything he'd done since Gabriel had left, and he didn't even get _that_. He didn't get a thing.

But he wasn't exactly bitter, not anymore – well fine, maybe a little, if he was being honest with himself. But when his parents consoled him and expected him to start sobbing and need a few therapy sessions in lieu of the fallout, he realized that he hadn't crashed and burned. Not like he would have, if Dean hadn't been around to put a perspective on things.

He looked back at Dean. "Yeah. I did." he replied. "I did earn it. I slaved over that school for, what, six years? Because I didn't know what else to do with myself. I gave up my friends, I gave up doing the things I liked, I became some obsessive asshole – and for what? One little rejection letter, saying I'm not good enough." He closed his eyes for a moment, felt the winter chill scald his vision when he opened them again. "So, it's okay. I found out, and I refused to be bothered by it because I think I've given them too much already. You're right - I gave them everything. I don't owe them this. I guess I never really owe anybody anything, but I especially don't owe them spending the rest of my life agonizing over a stupid piece of paper." He swallowed. "Dean, do you remember, back up in my room? I said that I wasn't too sure about anything anymore – what I wanted, what I'm going to do after I graduate." he sighed. "And now I _really_ don't know – all my plans have pretty much been shot to hell."

Dean looked heartbroken. "Cas…"

Castiel smiled, slowly. "But I think… I think I'm going to be alright."

"…Alright?" Dean said, sounding doubtful.

"Yeah, we're going to be just fine, the two of us, you know? I kind of realized… a bit late, I guess, that I'm going to be taking a shot in the dark no matter where I go, or what I do. The sooner I accept that," he shrugged.

"I didn't think you'd go all Zen on me while I was away," Dean said. "So… you _are_ okay? With this?"

"As okay as I can be, I guess."

"Really?"

"Really, Dean. In a way I guess I should be thanking you. Because honestly, if you didn't bother yelling some sense into me," Dean gave a sheepish look at the mention. "I'd probably be in bed right now, thinking my life was over." Castiel took a breath. "So, even though you don't want me to tutor you anymore, you should still come by – you know, for the sake of my sanity, and everything."

Dean seemed lost. "Who said you weren't going to be my tutor?"

"You said you might not need one anymore," Castiel said. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, like I'm letting you go. I don't care if I become the next Shakespeare or whatever – you're the only thing that makes English bearable. You're the only thing that makes school bearable pretty much. So don't think for a second I don't want you around, 'cause that's not… true." he hesitated. "Unless you're trying to get rid of me?"

"Not for a second," Castiel replied automatically.

"Good – then yeah, you're definitely stuck with me." Dean paused for a long moment, as if trying to edge over into another topic. "And, uh, actually, you're not the only one who's been doing the whole Philosophy 101 thing," he said. "I wanted to ask you: how good are you at taking SATs?"

Castiel recalled the 790 he had gotten in Critical Reading and the 720 he had scored in Math. "…Pretty decent, I'd say. Why?"

"Remember how I said college wasn't an option for me?" Castiel had an idea where this was going.

"Right,"

"Well, maybe I might want to change my mind. And since I have fuck all to go on, I'm going to need some help. Well, a lot of help. Like a _lot_."

"_Well…_" Castiel tilted his head, looking as if he was deeply considering whether or not to help Dean. "I _suppose_ that's what I'm here for." In a more serious tone he went, "But you know you won't be getting in for the fall, right?"

"I know. I thought that I'd stick around for a bit, work full time, finish what I need to, write some killer essay and start in the spring semester, or even the year after. I mean, my uncle – friend of the family – Bobby, he runs his own garage. I mentioned him before." Castiel shook his head, faintly recalling him. "I'm thinking that maybe all I want to do is just work on cars until I'm dead, because that's, well, that's my Language and Comp, right? But even he took some accounting courses to keep better track of his books. And if I got an associate's in engineering, I could get hired for more, work my way up, maybe get my own place if I wanted. Hell, I could just be a technical writer and make manuals for Chevrolet if I wanted to. Once I started thinking like that, there were literally a hundred options I could come up with. So, like you said, I'm playing it by ear and hoping for the best."

"I bet it'll save you a lot more trouble than going my way," Castiel said. "But I'm happy for you, Dean. I really am. And I'll help you as much as I can."

"Thanks. That – that means a lot to me, to hear that coming from you."

There was a pregnant pause, Dean shuffled his feet, Castiel wished for another jacket. "So, was that all?" he asked, going back towards the door.

"…Yeah. That's it." But it didn't _sound_ over, Castiel heard the tone. The wistful trailing off of words that sounded more expected on the lips of a romance novel heroine than Dean's. He turned back from the door, took a step forward.

"There's something else, isn't there?" He asked. Dean smiled self consciously.

"Can't get anything by you, Cas." Castiel shrugged, hands firmly clenched in his pocket. Dean had a flush across his nose and his ears, though that might not have been from the cold. Not completely anyway, considering how Dean kept shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet for a few silent, freezing seconds before he worked up the ability to look Castiel in the eyes and speak.

"Okay, this is gonna sound really dumb, but..."

"I'm used to it," Castiel breezily offered. "I mean sounding stupid. You don't sound as dumb as you think, really."

"Yeah, you'd be the first to say that." He wiped his mouth. "Actually, you would be. Cas, I showed up because I wanted to show you... let you know about my grades, let you know that I'm really – that I'm glad you decided to... to give me a chance because I'm kind of used to... _not_ getting one, I guess. And I mean, your family's one thing, your family has to care, you know? But since high school I can't say I've seen my family all that much either. And I didn't know that I... that I _missed_ that, until you showed up and forced the both of us to start caring about me." Castiel listened patiently to the word vomit Dean was splattering everywhere, looking at him with big blue eyes like this was the most important thing he could be doing at the moment. The guy who could grow up to cure cancer and be the next supreme court justice and publish a thousand novels on fucking _anything_; who was probably just working on some thesis paper right when Dean came by, and was standing in jeans and a jacket and freaking _moccasins_, listening to him with a patient turn to his lips that told Dean a whole lot of things he couldn't decipher as he was too busy stuttering out his feelings.

"What I'm trying to say..." he concluded lamely, "Is that I realized – and you don't have to do anything about this, I just thought you should know because you're all rational and shit about emotions and you won't punch me in jaw, I mean you _could_, if you want, but I don't think you will – is that I might, maybe, uhm..."

Castiel never said he was well versed in the esoteric, maddeningly intricate ways of teenagers, but Dean had started to help him understand it. And as he watched Dean sputter himself silly, his mind suddenly snapped to the conclusion. Dean was trying to overcome his macho, no chick flick moments persona, because he might have maybe liked Castiel a bit more than the typical bromance. And the realization was so easily paired with those moments of awkward staring; the way they acted a few weeks ago in Castiel's bedroom… it was all pretty obvious on both sides, actually. So Castiel did the sensible thing with his newfound knowledge, and the burst of confidence he got from learning that he wasn't in some horrible spiral of unrequited love.

He took the few steps needed to get back to the pillar. He stood in front of Dean, who was still trying to spit _it_ out, and Castiel murmured a quick "Stop talking," before leaning into Dean, hand on his shoulder to keep him still as he kissed him.

Castiel must have been right because it wasn't even a second before he felt Dean kissing back, experimentally holding the back of Castiel's neck as if to ask, _is this okay? Am I kissing one of my best friends all right?_ But even the tentative behavior didn't last much longer, because another part of the teenage experience was having little to no finesse, no matter what one's GPA was, it didn't take long for Dean to realize that Castiel had absolutely no qualms kissing him, and vice versa, and at that point neither wasted any time being chaste.

Castiel leaned into Dean like he wished he could have weeks ago. Dean was set against the white pillar of the porch, and Castiel twined his fingers into the short strands of his hair before slipping down to his jaw. They were ice against his flushed cheeks, and they pressed themselves impossibly close, faces warm, mouths hotter, and all of the sudden Castiel couldn't bear to be anywhere else.

For the past few months he had been floating from one uncertainty to the next, and this, right here, with Dean's lips sliding against his and his hands worming their way under his jacket and holding his hips tight and the way his eyelashes brushed his face every time they forced themselves closer – _this_ was something he was going to hold onto; until he got his diploma, until he officially became an Adult and left behind his long dead childhood; until Dean moved back home, or maybe he'd be able to hold onto this for much longer than that. But no matter what, he wasn't ready to let this one piece of certainty go. Because he _loved_ Dean Winchester. Against everything else, he loved him, and feeling Dean shudder against his lips, not kissing anymore but still letting his cold hands brush just under Castiel's clothes, cursory and eager and wonderful, he thought that Dean probably loved him back.

Castiel rested his forehead against Dean's. "About damn time," he said, lips brushing against the other's mouth. Dean chuckled, his warm breath and flushed face making the frigid hands holding Castiel's bare skin even colder in comparison. "So," he said. "What now?"

"I thought I'd just be able to say that I like you," Dean admitted sheepishly, "And then I was going to ask if we could go see that movie you promised me."

"You haven't passed senior year yet." Castiel coolly reminded, though Dean seemed more interested in pushing his nose along Castiel's throat and collar.

"I will." He promised, voice low and intimate enough to make Castiel shiver. Moreover, he believed him. He ran a hand back through Dean's hair, patted a few stands down, messed him up a bit.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Well," Dean straightened back up again, but they hadn't parted an inch. Dean was leaning against the pillar, and the considering look he had on tempted Castiel to just say 'fuck it' to the whole dating process and just go back to kissing him out in the cold, in the front of his house where his parents, his neighbors, everyone from Rachel to Inias to even Mrs. _Tran_ might see them. "They did an adoption of Kerouac's _On the Road_. How 'bout that?"

"I'm more a fan of Steinbeck…" he slowly, reluctantly, stepping back from Dean. "But I guess that'll do. I'll be right back."

He vanished inside for a minute, yelled to his parents about a visit from a friend with a vague promise to be home before it got too late. He found better shoes, and another coat. He wondered for a moment if he ought to put on a proper shirt, but decided all of a sudden it wasn't worth it.

"No suit?" Dean asked when Castiel stepped back outside. Dean's hair was a little messed up, and Castiel couldn't stop a stupid grin from getting plastered on his face.

"Nope." They stepped off the porch together.

"Still playing that crappy symphony station?"

"Of course."

Dean hesitated a moment before venturing, "Could you play anything like that?" and Castiel once again felt like he was twelve, getting all humble and embarrassed about his skills. It was an alien feeling, nowadays, but he almost missed it, sort of like he missed actually being able to play some of the pieces he heard while driving down the road. All in all he supposed he missed a lot of things.

"…I could," he concluded simply, and the implication was that while he most certainly had the ability years ago, it might not have been a lost cause, either. Castiel let it hang there between them, an insinuation, a promise, before carrying on. "_And,_" he went pointedly, "Since the Impala will still be my car for the next few months, I get to listen to whatever I want, whether you like it or not."

"Next few months?" Dean stopped in his tracks, looking worried. "You didn't… you aren't getting _rid_ of it, are you?"

Castiel smiled again – it had just slipped out – but who could blame him if his mind was going a little haywire at the moment? "It was meant to be more of a graduation surprise, but yes: chances are, whichever college I pick doesn't want me to have a car on site, at least not as a freshman. Most of my other picks were in the city or had enough transit anyway. My parents aren't going to keep the car if I didn't use it, so…" he, still mobile, walked over and punched in the entry code to the garage, watching as the doors rolled up, revealing the Impala in all her sparkling clean, retro glory. He gave a sidelong glance to Dean. "Think of this as another incentive. You know, for passing."

Dean looked like he was about to pass out. He was dumbly standing a few feet away, where he had stopped in fear that Castiel was planning to sell the car.

"You…" he pointed weakly at the Impala. "You mean I can…"

"Have it? Yeah. I figure she deserves someone who would take care of her. More than I could."

"You called her a _she_." Castiel shrugged helplessly.

"Are you coming or what? The movies were _your_ idea, after all." As a quick impulsive thought, he reached in his back pocket and threw Dean his keys. "Oh, and you can drive." He said, before getting inside and buckling up.

"…No way," Dean whispered, still standing a comically large distance away, but Castiel beckoned him in and Dean actually ran over to the driver's side, yanking the door open and sidling up right next to Castiel on the bench. He turned the key into the ignition and a roar ripped through the garage. "Listen to her – God, Cas, I could _kiss_ you." Castiel remembered Dean saying the same thing a while ago and trying to avoid it. But this time, he just leaned a little closer, putting his arm around Dean's neck.

"You _can_," he said slyly, and Dean leaned over and did just that.

**[The End]  
**

**A/N: Yay! It's finished! My first attempt at a high school AU - good, bad? I've heard a few people say that they wanted sequel or a continuations in this 'verse, and I have more than a handful of ideas that would act as oneshots or other, smaller stories, and I would be willing to do that if there's adequate support for it. Thanks for reading!  
**


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